Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart
by Arsenic Allure
Summary: Hermione is a phoenix. Oliver is her burning day. Their love waits. OWHG.
1. Rebirth

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**1: Rebirth**

'_Oliver—_

'_Hermione—_

_We have waited too long.'_

My name is Hermione Granger and I am watching Oliver Wood, Hogwarts' best Keeper, ex-Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and ex-Gryffindor housemate. I wish I were lavished in eternal fire once more. I have been in piteous embers for years, empty, desolate, confused. I wish for those past days, for my unending burning because, though it hurt, though it pained me, my love for him is fuel.

But now—

Now?

_My thoughts, sensations, dreams and actions—_

_Oliver, you must know! It must be obvious, you must understand..._

_I burn for you._

_I hold a torch to you._

_You are my rebirth!_

I quiver as I watch. All I need is to look at him and my mouth is dry. He is east to me from my place in the common room. My stomach is in knots and my rune translation is forgotten on the desk before me. I jump whenever the door to the girls' dormitory opens but, though this jars me, I do not, cannot, stop thinking about him. His looks, though perfection, are not what draw me to him, a puppet on strings. It is his dedication. He is scribbling on parchment as he has done for years, diagrams filled with noughts and crosses, lines and curves – I studied their meanings in secret want of a connection.

He is the personification of more than Quidditch. He is diligence and he is dedication. It takes drive and maturity to focus on something so intently, a lot of passion— I choke on the word and swallow my sudden cowardice that makes my breath hitch in my throat. I am so insecure, so naïve. All I have is my intellect and my assiduousness nature. My determination... is this enough?

I sigh. It is laughable to think that gives us something in common. That I, a bibliophilic reader and workaholic, with an attention span ten times the circumference of Hogwarts' walls, hold virtues of stubborn fortitude equal to the determination required to be labelled a Quidditch fanatic. I am not brave. I do not have a brave heart and I do not hold or reside in his.

Still, I watch and swallow and look and suddenly taste the thirst of one lost in an arid wilderness.

He is back. I thought he had left me in peace. I thought I was free of this torture. And yet, and yet I think I—

I start, violently. My gold quill is momentarily strangled in my fist as an echoing bang explodes from my right. My head whips around in shock – Oliver mirrors my reaction (a sign?) – and I narrow my eyes as I see the Weasley twins' faces black with soot. Their red hair is pushed back, their eyes shocked and mouths agape. They immediately start laughing and point their wands at each other, instantly clean and identical. I rise up from my seat, slyly glimpsing Oliver as he shrugs and goes back to his parchment, whilst I, in irrational anger, march over to the two trouble makers in front of the fire. They have noticed my approach and are standing in front of the coffee table, hands behind their backs, grinning. I tear my eyes from the literal image of my internal dilemma.

'Hermione!' the one on the left says. 'To what do we owe this great pleasure?'

I put my hands on my hips. 'To what—?' I sputter, disbelievingly. I wave a finger at them. 'That massive _explosion_, perhaps!'

'Did _you_ hear an explosion, George?' asks Fred, turning to his seemingly ignorant brother.

'No, I don't think I did, Fred. Did _you_ hear an explosion?' Their eyes glint mischievously.

'Well _I_ did,' I snap, 'and I'm certain the Slytherins in the _dungeon_ did too!'

The twins look positively gleeful. 'Wicked!' they cry, and clap their hands together in a high-five.

I smirk and cross my arms. 'I thought you said there was no explosion.' I feel smug now. It radiates from me in waves. Maybe Oliver would be proud of me?

They glance at each other, and their grins only spread wider. 'There was none. We're simply flattered that you'd think we could do something like that.' Fred winks. 'Any more high-praises from you, dear Prefect, and we might just have to give you a _kiss_.'

I am quite sure they got what they wanted. My cheeks have started to burn and I cannot help but smile nervously, even though that patronising tone makes my skin crawl with every syllable. I like the twins when they are not causing mayhem to the point of being dangerous. No one can deny that they certainly are charming. But their words have forced my mind to flicker back to the days when I would dream about such an occurrence... but not with them...

(Dream from embers: his hands at my neck, his lips slanted over mine, the planes of his chest rock hard against my breasts, confused as to where one ends and the other begins, and white, hot fire burning, burning, burning...)

'Fine,' I relent, forcing my mind to return. 'No testing on the first years, remember? That still stands.' They nod, crossing their hearts comically. 'And do _try_ to minimise the explosions.'

'Yes, Mum,' they chorus, rolling their eyes, and return to their smoking cauldron.

'Thank you,' I say and then their products lying innocently on the table come into my gaze. It is expected that I would not be able to stop myself from looking, too unavoidably curious about what they create and how they make it for my liking. I do realise that most of their products are clever, and sometimes ingenious. Fred and George get good marks when they want to and everybody likes them. If Ron could figure that out, surely I can _admit_ it, even after talking with them more from third year.

They must have caught me watching because one looks up and, still grinning, remarks, 'I think she's afraid we'll burn the common room down.'

I sit down in the seat facing one, the other beside me, stop and say, 'The two of you must start wearing Mrs. Weasley's jumpers again. Who's who?'

'For you, we'll be truthful. George.' He points and across from me, the twin gives a wave. 'And I'm Fred.'

'Thank you.' I look at them, my eyes searching for something. I need to talk to someone about this, or that, or everything. It is weighing me down, and it is not just because I have a ceaseless infatuation with someone who has never looked twice at me. They have it. The understanding shines brilliantly through their blue eyes. I sigh, dropping my head in my hands to rub my forehead tiredly. 'No, not _afraid_, I'm just… worried.' And burning, burning, always burning. I fancy I feel his eyes on me.

'About the first years?' There is comical, funny Fred.

'No.' I nudge him with my knee, smiling with a small upturn of my lips. 'Not the first years.'

'Oh, well it can't be us.' The tone of his voice is laughing, and I look over at George to see him leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, the order forms discarded on the seat to his left.

'It is, just a touch… First there's the Quidditch game and it is impractical for the two of you to be doing _this _rather than training.' I say it in a hurry, loudly, hoping he will be proud. Then I deflate. 'And second... The two of you _do_ realise how dangerous what you're doing is, don't you? Here, especially. Umbridge might hear or see and then... aren't you worried? That's what I'm worried about. Umbridge and her rising influence.' I peer at their hands, noting the harsh words scratched into them, scars from the mutilation. 'What she's been doing to students, to _anyone_' – _Not him, not him, please not him_ – 'without reason or cause is... it's an injustice.' I pause, suddenly feeling white hot rage course through me and I spit, 'She's a _sadist_!'

They nod, slightly more sober than I have ever seen them. 'We know,' George says quietly.

'But she's not going to stop us. We've got something planned, anyway.' I raise my eyebrows. 'We can't say, but you won't forget it.' Our group stays silent for a time before Fred winks to George and he says cheerfully, 'Hermione, I think we're going to have to make something special for you.'

'Why?'

George moves from his couch and sits on my other side, shrugging. 'Just because.'

'What would you like?'

'Nothing for me, thank you,' I say, shaking my head, then pause. 'Or _maybe_ a self-inking quill. That would save a lot of time.' I swivel around, holding onto the back of the couch for support, my arms outstretched as I turn to their smiling faces. 'A quill such as that would be a fine way to speed up essay writing.' I smile. 'Thank you, but I've got a rune translation that is calling my name.'

'Oh, really?' asks Fred in jest. 'I don't hear anything.'

I glare at him, 'Funny. I have to finish it.'

'It's probably due in about two weeks, can't possibly wait.'

George earns a glare as well. 'Three, actually.'

'George, I think she's mocking us.' Fred says with mocking appal on his face.

'She is. And what're we gonna do about that?' They both grin and before I know it I am falling backwards, about to hit my head on the coffee table, shrieking shrilly, until they grab my arms again, jolting me so much my hair breaks free of its ponytail. I let out a shaky breath. The twins leave me hanging, mercifully holding securely onto my wrists as they laugh. But my eyes drift over to the corner table and I turn my head to the left and catch sight of Oliver in the corner, raising his eyebrows at the interruption. Chills travel through my spine at the thought of his anger. The twins haul me upwards, each taking my back as well.

Somehow I cannot bring myself to yell at them. It is not that I am not angry, for I am very angry. Lucky for them, it is overridden by the fact that I have once again seen Oliver and found myself woozy and all I can think about is that he seems more attractive upside down than right side up. The twins stop laughing, flick their eyes to Oliver, to me, and back again before grinning once more. _Oh no_, I think, _oh, no, no, no, no!_

'Are you _blushing_, Hermione?' they chorus, cocking their heads to the right.

I stand up, careful where to place my feet in case I step on one of their rogue inventions. 'You _did_ just cause all the blood to rush to my head.' I cross my arms across my chest, scowling at them. They shift closer together, a small space between them where it is suddenly not so safe to be.

'You didn't tell us, Hermione,' Fred says, pouting.

George observes, 'Since you're standing up you should be completely fine.'

'But you're not.'

'And that can only mean one thing.'

'We're going to _tell_!'

My eyes widen as I wildly dive forward, clamp a hand over each of their mouths and land in that dangerous spot. Their traitorous words are muffled as I hold their lips closed, staring at the two in horror. I cannot believe I am so easy to read, or that they were about to yell it across the common room to the one person who can never find out.

'_Are you crazy?_' I hiss, flicking my eyes between the two. I can feel their smirks against my hand, and then something else. Their mouths open, hot air escapes and they start to _lick my hands_. Disgusted, I pull my hands away and wipe their saliva off onto their own cloaks just as Fred wraps his arms around my waist whilst George seizes my legs, and, in one movement, shove me back to sitting between them. I am rather annoyed that I cannot struggle my way away from their stocky bodies.

'How long?' asks Fred. I stubbornly shake my head. I have not told even Harry or Ron. As if he could read my thoughts, Fred continues in the same reasoning tone. 'You'd never tell Harry, and Ron would have been the very last person to find out, not including your boy over there.' I open my mouth. 'If you haven't told Harry or even Ginny, then there's no way you'd've told the man in question. So just be glad we found out.'

'Somehow I am not feeling very glad,' I mutter bitterly.

'And you should be flattered that _we're_ going to help you.' George adds, nudging my leg.

I eye them, realising it would be pointless to tell them to forget it, and even more so, to mention the fact that there are age, interest and extreme personality differences standing in the way. Instead, I ask suspiciously, 'Why do you want to help?'

'Because,' George answers, 'if Oliver gets a girl then he might lighten up… or at least change his speech.' Fred winks and yawns dramatically.

'Might save those Puddlemeres a few eardrums,' Fred continues. 'And if we help you, then it's a guarantee. Oh, and Hermione, we want to see you happy.'

'I do not need a male hanging off my arm to be happy, _thank you very much!_'

The twins exchange their strange glances, their eye roll unsuccessfully hidden. 'If you say so. But if you've been mooning over him as long as we think, then that fancy you got going is enough to make him a possible "better half", even though you are _so_ bloody good by yourself, Hermione.'

Despite myself, I smile as George nods and Fred beams. 'I'm not sure,' I say, dropping my shoulders and attitude a little, relaxing into the soft cusioning of the couch. 'I'm not even sure he knows I exist.'

They grin as they so often do, 'Don't worry,' Fred says. George finishes for him, 'We can help with that.' I am unsure if I like the sound of that.

'Listen… I think I'll just… observe.' Fred tuts, shaking his head, his long, red hair brushing my shoulders.

'No, Hermione. It might interfere with your school work!' I suddenly pale at how right they are. 'That's right,' continues Fred, 'think of the schoolwork. This is time for action. George?' He nods to his twin.

'Fred.' George nods back and they stand and pull me up onto my feet, as if I weigh nothing more than a rag-doll. 'Sleep on it'

'But what of Quidditch practice?' I try. 'Angelina will maim you if you even think of relaxing.'

They only shake their heads and usher me away toward my rune translation. I sit back down, and deliberately stare out the side window at a black sea of diamond stars with cloud tendrils flowing through. I sigh. Images fill my head, those which I will never admit to. I would rather burn at my stake than risk death by embarrassment.

No more work can be done tonight. I pack up my ink and parchment, stuff it hazardously into my book bag and swing around toward the fire. Fred and George look up, wink at me and nod their heads toward Oliver. I turn and see he is packing up as well.

I start and stare, pausing with my hand clutching the spine of my textbook. Oliver pushes his papers into his shoulder bag and looks around for anything he forgot. His eyes land on me and I feel my stomach tighten and my eyes widen imperceptibly. I burn. My throat is tight. He smiles, a hint of his weariness in the lines of his mouth, hidden underneath the blinding fact that he is smiling at _me_. I smile back, goofily, giddily, clutching my books to my chest. He turns away and I crumple, my foundation gone. I pack up my things.

Making my way around the desk to open the door to the girl's dormitory is hard and I sigh again because I am tired, because my bag is so heavy, and because I can feel eyes on my back. It is a battle not to turn around to see if it is the twins that seem to be a burning a hole through me. I foolishly hold a hope that it is him looking at me, that I am not invisible – that I have a chance, that the very thought of me sends shivers down his spine – and shake my head._ You're crushing like a school-girl_. I tell myself.

I forget to mention that I am one.

_-x-x-x-_

The grass is green and covered in icy dew on the Pitch, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team whoosh to and fro up above. Katie, Alicia and Angelina are practicing drills. They appear to be dodging an opposing Chaser and passing the Quaffle at the same time, though who am I to to know? Fred and George are teasing a Bludger to come at them, an idea I personally think is rather foolish, and Harry is high up above the rest, a black dot in the sky that is chasing after an invisible Snitch. Oliver is coaching Ron, momentarily distracted from his task on the ground and looking up into the sun at the frivolous Weasley twins

'Oi, Weasleys! Get to work!' he roars, cupping his large hands around his mouth. No one seems to be brave enough to mention that he is not the Captain anymore, not even Angelina. Next to Oliver, Ron is leaning on his broom for support against his fright, seemingly quaking in his boots with apprehension. His freckles on his neck and face stand out remarkably against the white pallor of his skin, even from the large distance between their positions and mine where I sit in the lower stands. I am trying my hardest to concentrate on the Charms text open on my lap, but the winter's wind keeps flipping the pages and my hair around. Of course, it is the season's fault that my thoughts have strayed and I am not studying. It could not possibly be the very loud, eager and frustrated ex-Captain pacing the Pitch. I am not watching the way his hands move or the whipping of his brown hair. I am not focusing solely on these things for more than a half hour.

But I am and it is how the twins sneak up on my left and right to scare the living daylights out of me when their combined breaths tickle my ears.

'Distracted?'

I jump, the heavy book almost falls from my lap, my hand shoots up to my chest and I bite my lip to stifle my shriek. 'Don't _do_ that!' I reprimand them, angrier at myself that I was caught than at them for frightening me.

Teasingly, they say, 'Couldn't resist.'

George laughs. 'What could _possibly_ tear her away from a book?'

Of course they know. I cringe and mutter, 'Am I really that obvious?'

'Well,' ponders Fred, 'you're like… a wildfire whiz-bang. With a vanishing spell: definitely can't miss 'em.'

'Comforting, Fred. I feel so much better now.'

'That was genius. A real winner.'

He beams at his brother and I, crying, 'Thank you!' and dramatically wipes away an imaginary tear as George claps a hand on his shoulder.

'That is not even funny,' I mutter and hang my head in my hands.

Angelina remembers she is the Captain and suddenly yells, 'You two! Stop fraternising!'

'That's our cue.' George says, mounting his broom.

Fred swings a leg over his too, winking at me. 'And don't worry, we have a plan.' He brandishes his bat over his head in a salute. My head falls again and I realise, with the twins plotting for me, I just might die before I reach seventeen. _Merlin, help me._

I watch the twins as they fly away, holding their bats aloft and searching for their rogue Bludgers. Who knew I could tolerate their presence? Who knew that they could tolerate _mine?_ I am glad for them, though. Maybe not their hasty plans, but for them, yes. Maybe they will hold my fire for me one day.

The book is resting dejectedly on my lap, slowly falling forgotten from my grasp; for once I do not want to read. I am not even going to bother, and instead start searching for Harry. I look up.

It is not Harry, I find. It is a brown dot in the sky, increasing in size as it comes closer, rapidly toward me, spinning in the air.

I scream and dive out of the way as the Bludger pelts right through the seats, creating a solid hole where I was. Frantic and uncomprehensive, I catch sight of Fred and George chuckling and grinning, looking toward Oliver. Instantly, my own eyes involuntarily flicker toward him. He is standing with his back to me, but I can see Ron's astonishment, plain on his ghostly face. At least _he_ noticed. Harry has vanished – too high, too pensive, too involved in his task, or disappeared.

The twins have started yelling. 'Time out, time out!' they call. They are flying around in loops and three-sixties, scowling in Oliver's direction and indicating my shocked form.

'What is it _now_?' Angelina yells, annoyed. I am annoyed too. Am I so unimportant? Why so invisible?

'Those!' I yell, jabbing a finger toward the twins, 'Those _weasels!_ They shot a Bludger at me! It missed me by an inch!' I am shaking with rage. '_An inch!_,' I emphasise, holding my out my fingers, agonisingly close together, glaring at them. This was their plan? To get me _killed_? They just earned themselves an enemy.

'Hermione, I'm sure it was an accident.'

_What?!_

The girls have already gone back to their activities by the time I spin around. Angelina's voice is ringing in my head as I look up to the twins as they laugh and joke together and I reason that she is blind. My mouth is hanging open, my fists are closed and the book lies where it landed, somehow, safe, remaining forgotten.

Or at least, I thought it was.

He clears his throat, and I immediately reach for my wand, thinking it is Umbridge, but stop myself just in time. This is loud, sure and deep, not like the sniffle of 'ahem ahem' that makes us snicker so. I am afraid to turn around. _Don't be such a coward_, I tell myself. I turn, my bones grating together with the effort, and the first thing I see is his feet. They are nice feet; enclosed in brown dragon hide work boots, quite solid. How did I miss him coming? Pants are black, and I could swear they are denim, but I did not know the wizarding world had jeans… and there is my book held out, its gold cover complementing the red shirt he is wearing for practice instead of a billowing cloak, reminding me he was a Gryffindor, and that I used to sit in the common room and watch him like I was last night, that in bed I would do sinful things with his name on my lips...

_Oliver... Oliver..._

My mouth is quickly shut as I realise I am staring.

'Hello.'

'Hi.' I cough, nod and stutter a thank you without looking at his face. My cheeks and my ears are burning.

'Pleasure,' says he. 'Watch out for those Bludgers, Hermione.' My name? He knows my name? My head shoots up and suddenly our eyes are connected. His are large and deep brown, they stare into me, see me, reel me in. I feel like I am drowning, and am saved when, a second later, he ducks away, jumps on his broom and flies off before I realise that he has not sought me out or asked anyone. He read it on the name tag I wear for regulation purposes, one of the few who does. I suddenly have the urge to rip it off, tear it up, throw it into the common room fire and watch it smoulder with my self-pitying rage.

Fred and George come over but I refuse to speak to them. The Charms tome is clutched to my chest, my eyes are hard on the place where the hole was. Briefly, it occurs to me that the benches repair themselves, that that is an extraordinary piece of magic which I would usually want to perfect and it is strange that I am not thinking about it. My thoughts are roaming free, seeing his brown eyes. I decide they are the colour of a strong tea with a small amount of milk. I think about my eyes, how they are unremarkable and plain to match me, Plain Jane, or Jean. My hands are still shaking when Harry touches down, puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me training has finished. I follow him without a word.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	2. Flint and Tinder

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**2: Flint and Tinder**

'Hermione… come on, we said we were sorry.'

'It's not like you _did_ die. Even then, you wouldn't. Maybe just a few megawatts of pain, but still…'

I refuse to answer their constant whining. I am angry at them for attempting my murder. It would be illogical to forgive them.

Then again, I have no homework due in the near future and wish not for a headache with study. Harry and Ron are feverishly attempting to complete their piles of homework and both have not said a word to me since classes ended because I told them they were, for once, to write their essays themselves. The boys do not have to know that I am bitter toward their entire species because of one male's visit.

(And he does not have to know that he makes me quiver with his mere presence and the thought of him pressing an intimate, devilish kiss to the palm of my hand sends me into overdrive, into spasms of pleasure that should make me feel guilty – and yet all I want is more, and more, and more...)

I admit that I should put the twins out of their misery because I know they have been seeking me since yesterday's mishap and because today I did not show up to watch their practice (for not even Oliver could make my cowardice die so I could face death by twins). Every time they caught sight of me, absolutely begging for forgiveness, I would turn the other way.

For, at the end of third year, they had caught me crying in an alcove of the corridors after I had become hysterical from the stress of Muggle Studies and fancying a boy. They hugged me together and gave me some of their sweets from Honeydukes. This has been happening for two years, the arguments and the stress, and then the sudden forgiveness. They have become my brothers, and I love my family unconditionally. So I know that, eventually, I will keep walking toward them in the corridors and if I look at them now, my resistance will be vain.

After a long time, I lift my head from its resting position on my knees and my resolve weakens significantly because Fred and George are kneeling in front of my armchair near the fire, looking absolutely adorable with pouting lips and puppy dog eyes. They each snake a hand around one of my wrists and give a small tug, increasing their built-in weaponry of irresistible charm. They know they are forgiven.

My knees are bunched up and my head rests upon them. I roll my eyes as they grin, spectacularly unaware that they are one false move away from their own certain deaths. 'Come on an adventure with us?' George asks.

I stay silent, levelling my gaze to them for the space of three heartbeats. I sigh. 'Why me?'

'Why not you?' Fred asks rhetorically, and I am used to hearing this. I open my mouth to list the many, many correct answers to that question, but George clamps his hand over it and shakes his head. Fred pats my arm. 'Our git of a brother and the resident champion have abandoned you so we thought you might like some company because we,' Fred grins as George removes his hand, 'are not busy.'

I roll my eyes again, grumbling sarcastically, 'Ickle Ronnikins and The-Boy-Who-Vanished are on a break in their dorm practicing their romance skills.' The twins blink, throw back their heads to guffaw and start rolling around on the floor laughing. I stare at them incredulously for a moment before noticing all the curious looks from the other occupants of the common room. Immediately, I blush and mutter, 'Get up. It wasn't _that_ funny.'

'Oh but it was! The images were magnificent!' George chokes out.

Fred sits up, trying to contain himself. 'Who would have thought _you_ would say that?'

I notice several stares and swallow. 'Would you two _shut up_?' I snap, bringing my knees up again and burying my face in my arms.

Their faces are closer. I can feel their breath on my arm. I can feel their warmth but there is no fire – fire that comes from him, my absent love, only. I sigh again, suddenly morose.

They tug and I unwind myself without looking up. Before I know it, George has one arm under my knees and I am over his shoulder while Fred looks on as we make our way out the portrait door. I start kicking and punching George's back, yelling for them to put me down. Completely ignoring me, George chuckles as Fred winks and says, 'You might want to stop that unless you'd like the entire common room to see your knickers.' I halt my actions immediately and settle for glaring a hole through his head.

The Fat Lady does not seem at all surprised to find the twins hauling a girl out by force. She simply nods to the two and shakes her head with pity at me. I am floored. 'What did you do to her?' I almost yell and I spread my arms so much I hit George in the head. 'Sorry, George,' I apologise, almost mechanically. He shifts my position as we wait for the staircase to change and I am jostled further up by the swift lurch. I think it is for spite.

'We have been here for seven years, Hermione. _Seven_. She's used to our escapades.'

'Along with the odd damsel?'

He beams. 'Exactly!'

'George, put me down.'

'Why?'

'So I can thump him.'

'What do you say?' I can hear him sniggering.

'Please.'

'What was that?'

I groan, resting an elbow on George's back and retort, 'You're on thin ice, boys.' It comes out less harsh than I would have liked. It occurs to me that I am enjoying this.

Fred merely grins and says, 'George, if you will.' George sets me down carefully and I smooth out my skirt, I walk between them like a prisoner. They search the shadows for rogues and thieves and I search the people for Oliver. Is this inborn?

Our trio stops just before the stairs down to the Entrance Hall and Fred examines my flushed face closely. 'Now you promise to come quietly? No escaping into the sea.' He wags a finger at me.

'It's not as if I have a choice, Fred,' I say, smiling despite myself. I pull out my wand and point it at my hair. 'Why'd you do that?' George asks quizzically as it settles, the frizzing gone. They stand beside each other and stare.

'Because it was getting frizzy. I'm not usually…' I trail off, hoping they will understand.

They do, and, both grinning, reach forward and ruffle it up, tugging on curls, pushing some back. I try to swat them off, but Fred holds my hands still. 'There,' George says, 'much better.'

I do not want to know what I look like. Instead, I ignore them and ask, 'Are you going to tell me why I have been kidnapped?'

'We have to plan, you see,' George says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders whilst his twin goes for my waist. 'So we're off to the kitchens. We can't do that on an empty stomach, can we?' Fred looks horrified at the prospect and shudders.

I am suddenly uncomfortable with their presence, how close they are, how it has been increasing as I have allowed them closer with each passing month. I look at the two of them. 'Don't you… care what people will think if they see you, me… us, like this? I mean, _everybody_ likes you.'

'There it is!' They look at me in delight, quickly place a kiss on each of my cheeks and reply, 'Nah!' before guiding my stunned form down the stairs as they laugh. At me, them or the situation, I am unsure. I am sure that I would almost die if it were Oliver who kissed my blushing cheeks, who unknowingly holds my cowardly, golden heart in his hand. Most importantly, I would not care. I would let go of my inhibitions, my defences, my assertions, and, for once, I would feel the freedom of perceived immaturity. I close my eyes as we turn the last corner.

When they open, my gaze immediately lands on Oliver. He is standing at the foot of the stairs of the ground floor, with his back turned, holding onto his broom. I know he is turning to face us and I know what is going to come next. I swallow, and try to steel my wits for the onslaught.

Oliver's eyes narrow upon seeing us and the twins smoothly depart from my side to travel over to his, saying enthusiastically, 'Oliver, mate! Enjoying your stay?'

'Watch out for Umbridge, ol' chap,' George teases, shaking his hand vigorously. 'She's got her eye on you.'

I stare at Oliver. The look on his face is disconcerting, unblinking. He licks his lips and his gaze is level as it meets my eyes. I shudder and hold onto the stone handrail, suddenly weak at the knees.

He snaps his gaze to George. 'What? Why? Dumbledore's happy for me to be here, help the team with Quidditch.' Fred grins. Oliver frowns. 'Oh, please.'

'Oh, I dunno. What do you think, Hermione?' George asks, challenge in his voice. 'Reckon Umbridge fancies him?'

Feeling like I am about to have a heart attack, I jump and try to hide it and shake my head, stuttering, 'N-no. She only has eyes for Fudge… a-and it seems the whole world except him knows it.'

George raises his eyebrows. I can imagine what he is thinking: _Sounds familiar_.

Oliver smiles at that. I must fight not to break out in hysterics as he turns to me and says, 'Hi, Hermione. I'll keep that in mind, for later.'

It is nothing special except that it is actually _me_ he is speaking to, and now I cannot say anything else except, 'Hi. Right,' in a voice that I hope does not sound quite so shocked to others as it did for me.

My two knights come to the rescue. 'Well, we best be off,' they say, opening the door to the Entrance Hall.

'So, nice to see you again, Oliver. Come to the game this Saturday, or else we'll knock a Bludger to your head.'

'Can't play for Puddlemere then can you? Might ruin your Keeper skills.'

'We'll work our magic on McGonagall to get you a seat.'

'Or Lee might be able to promise not to let his words wander.'

'Though, _we_ can't promise that he'll be able to.'

'Nor that the other team won't open up to such insults.'

'Of course, as most of the Slytherins are trolls they can't do much about it.'

'Still, we'll get you a seat. Hermione, come with us.'

'Hermione here is helping us with some problems. Smart witch she is. Gorgeous too.'

'Don't you think so Oliver? I know we think so.'

'Wouldn't say it if it wasn't true.'

My jaw is perilously close to the floor as they finish. I almost forgot their twin talents for trouble. '_Excuse_ me?' Oliver and I simultaneously ask in bewilderment. I look at him at the same time he looks at me. My head drops and my shoes suddenly became very interesting as I move away nervously, banging right into George's chest.

'So, to the kitchens!' he says jollily. My instinctive squeal fills the Hall as he swings me back over his shoulder again and we set off for the kitchens. Fred waves to Oliver and the surrounding, gaping students. But I am not looking at their reactions, only at Oliver's. His jaw is shut tight and his eyes are hard with his fist clenched around the handle of his broom. I hear his stomping boots as we turn the corner and pass the Hufflepuff common room still-life painting. I have not struggled this time, opting to retain at least a scrap of my dignity. Fred is in front, darting around in the brightly lit corridor scouting for stray students. 'I was going to come quietly,' I yell. Fred spins on his heel, still continuing, and shrugs.

Internally, I quiver with excitement at a possibility: Could he be... jealous?

I ignore the portraits' gasps and giggles as much as I can for someone rocking to and fro on a seventeen-year-old's back. 'There was something wrong with Oliver,' I tell them.

They only grin and George sets me down. 'Really, Hermione, you're the lightest girl I've ever carried.'

I brush myself off again. 'I suppose you've carried many girls.'

'Yes.' Simply said. _Of course. _I raise my wand but remember what happened last time, and just try to pat it down. I do not mind my hair very much, only it is not especially manageable.

Fred takes one last look around before tickling the pear. I can hear its soft little giggle as it transfigures. Watching the door swing outwards, I peer in at the flood of surprising white light. 'Are we even _allowed_ down here?' I ask. 'What about Umbridge?'

'Personally,' says Fred as he holds the door open, 'I think she's scared of the house-elves. And we're not actually allowed in the Room anyway.'

'Don't like breaking the rules, huh, _Prefect_?'

I wipe the smirk off George's face with a smirk and a quip of my own. 'Actually, I find it quite thrilling, thank you.' I flounce past them, feeling very smug that they are momentarily stunned. _Take that, Gred and Forge!_

'I think we're a bad influence on you,' George says quietly, and Fred only nods. The kitchens are as hectic as they always are. Doors upon doors line the corridor, each one leading into a new kitchen and each kitchen gracing our noses with the aroma of the coming dinner. The walls are sandstone and the doors are a deep, earth green. I have only been here a few times with Harry and Ron, only once with Fred and George, and have never stayed long enough to explore. The boys' stomachs rumble and I smile as they clutch them and moan as if they were about to die of starvation. 'Time for planning, Fred?'

'Right time it is, George.' Fred takes out his wands and taps a button I had not noticed near the entrance. An elderly house-elf appears from a far door to the left, with sunken, brown eyes and a dirty apron over his tan, wrinkly body. He bows to us and Fred and George playfully bow back. 'We need a table, Jaala. Think you can manage that?'

Jaala nods and beckons us to follow him through the first archway to the right. Three circular tables sit near the fireplace with wooden stools and pitchers of water in the middle, large enough for me to assume that students are a regular sight in the kitchens. Jaala motions for us to sit, strangely silent. 'Can we get an early dinner? Please Jaala?' George begs, his eyes innocent and imploring. 'We're ever so hungry. Are you hungry, Hermione?' I shake my head, unwilling to ruin my appetite. 'Not for food, I see. Two small meals?' I scoff silently, willing to bet that the average male's version of small is very different to the average female's version of small.

Jaala seems to regard them suspiciously for a moment, before nodding, bowing and bustling out the room. 'Thank you!' I call as I watch him go, my mind already on S.P.E.W. track. I turn to the twins. 'Does he _ever_ talk? Is he all right?'

'Just wait,' is all they say, smirking so much I think their faces might crack.

Within seconds, the quiet bustle of the kitchens is interrupted by an incredibly loud, screeching voice resounding off the pots and pans horrendously. 'Sandwiches! Sandwiches! Sandwiches!' My eyes are bulging out of their sockets, my mouth hanging agape and Fred and George are crying with laughter at my astonishment. '_Now! Now! Now! Now!_' The insane house-elf continues yelling, even adding in a few profanities, for a good five minutes before the kitchens are once again quiet.

When Jaala finally comes back, the twins have still not stopped laughing and all I can do is stare at the small, grubby and half-way stooped house-elf walking toward us. He snaps his fingers, the crackle of golden sparks initiating the conjuring of the food. He bows stiffly and leaves and I am too stunned to say thank you. 'Bloody hell…' I breathe, still staring at the door. How could something so small be so darn _loud_?

Fred and George have sobered and are tucking into their sandwiches. My subconscious is thankful that they have slightly better table manners than their younger brother; even going so far as to swallow before observing, 'He has anger management problems.'

'Yes,' I say, nodding slowly. 'I think I will opt for Dobby next time.'

George shrugs. 'Being the head of this kitchen is a stressful job. His word is law here.'

'You're being a great help by giving him more work.'

'Keeps him on his toes,' Fred says with a grin. I open my mouth to reprimand him, but Fred is one step ahead, 'No Spew talk,' I glare at him. _S-P-E-W – How hard can it be?_ 'We're here on business.'

'Right,' George says seriously, 'here are the facts: you fancy Oliver. And, if our great matchmaking intuition is correct—'

'—As always.' Fred interjects. I roll my eyes at their self-assurance.

George nudges his brother to signal agreement before continuing. 'Oliver fancies you too.'

'He does not!' I have an idea as to why _they_ are rolling their eyes. I sigh and slump my shoulders, shrugging. 'Well… do you have any proof?'

'From him or us? Because, for as long as we've known Oliver, he can drop hints, but he's never actually acted without force. It is rather fun forcing him…'

'We, however,' Fred goes on, 'have quite a few secrets to share with you. For instance—'

'Wait.' I hold up a hand. 'Are they yours to tell?'

They share a glance. 'Well, they're not exactly secrets.'

'He hasn't actually _told_ us anything—'

'—but we happen to be very observant.'

'Anyone could know if they looked hard enough—'

'—and that's how we discovered your "secret."' I suppose they've got me there. I wave a defeated hand for them to continue, pouring three glasses of water.

Fred speaks and drinks as George takes another large, very large, bite out of his overflowing sandwich. 'For instance, he gets immensely jealous whenever any bloke touches you. I think we might have helped a bit there.' I nod, remembering his hard, stone gaze. 'That episode with the Bludger – we really are sorry about that one. Not one of our better ideas... Well, _you_ may not have seen it, diving for your life and all, but _we_ saw Oliver. Never seen him so white, not even after Harry's fall from the Dementors. Like a ghost, poor chap. Quickly covered it up, though. Bit angry at that, weren't we George?'

'Yeah,' George agrees, swallowing, ' since I was half expecting him to try and save you right off the bat like the bloody good Keeper he should be – you know, steal Ron's broom, zip on over – play the hero and win the damsel sort of situation. But the _sneaky git_ decided that you were okay and turned his back, like the absolute—' I frown.

'_Anyway_,' Fred interjects quickly, turning my glare to him, 'it's obvious. Nothing usually gets passed his defences. Must have been pretty strong. Lucky girl, aren't you Hermione?'

I ignore that comment and remember about Harry's disappearance. 'About that day, do you know where Harry was? I didn't see him the whole time.'

'I'm sure you saw only one thing that whole time.'

'Oh, nonsense,' I scold, withholding the truth of his quip. 'Did you?'

'Can't help you with that one. Must have been after the Snitch,' Fred muses. 'Though, you're right. He did seem to disappear.'

'Right,' I say, filing the problem away for later. 'Anything else?'

George, who has finished his sandwich, pushes his plate to the side and drinks some of the water. 'Yeah, the plan: We shove you and Oliver into a cramped, darkened room and keep you there until you start snogging each other.'

I pause while drinking and regard him over the rim of my glass. 'That borders on the immoral and stupid, George.'

He grins. 'But it would work.' He shakes his head and puts down his glass. 'Plan B is where we show you this photo we took. You see that, and _then_ we shove you in the cramped, darkened room.'

'Again, I would hex you.' Fred almost chokes on his sandwich and shakes his head.

'Without your wands,' George continues, winking. 'Wanna see the photo?'

Slowly, hesitantly, my shoulders hunch and I nod.

George winks again. 'You've got it, haven't you, Fred?' Fred stops eating and shakes his head. 'Well I haven't got it.' George is patting his pockets and shakes his head too, the red hair falling into his eyes.

'You lost it?' A horrible thought strikes me, and I set down my glass with a soft thud. 'Where is it?' George blinks twice and a rock forms in the bottom of my stomach.

'Maybe we could summon it?' George tries, squirming under my glare.

'And have the whole school see it? I don't think so!' I yell. If that got in the wrong hands… Ron's, Malfoy's… or Oliver's.

I imagine the disgust on his face. Despite what Fred and George have said, I know that deep down I can never force myself to believe it. I cannot do that to him, break his defences, burn him with a glance. He would be unconcerned, or worse, horrified by the picture.

We are all standing up now. When did we get up? 'Hermione, calm down. I'm sure no one's got it. It's with our joke stuff, positive. With the order forms.'

I start pacing. George stands behind me and I run into Fred. Sandwiched between, their obstructive bodies will stop me tugging agitatedly at my hair. My hands reach as if trying to rip out the truth but they never make it. Just like me and my wretched love life. 'Can we go find it? I don't want to be the mockery of the school.' I mumble and know I sound pathetically childish, but I am so scared of what will happen if Oliver finds it. I already know that romance with boys is bad news, thanks to Viktor, especially the other end of it.

They nod and we flee the kitchens.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

AN:_ What is Oliver doing at Hogwarts? He is visiting the Gryffindor team for their match against Slytherin. As they only won two years previously – remember, there was no Quidditch during the Triwizard Tournament – Oliver may believe that his presence will increase team morale and Gryffindor's chances of a healthy win. He requested and was granted official authority to stay in a visitor's room – as I assume Hogwarts caters for guests every now and then (such as during the Tournament) – and interact with the students. One may assume that his friends in Gryffindor let him in, whether he is allowed to access the common room or not. Currently, he is employed with Puddlemere United as a Reserve team member and does not attend Hogwarts as a student._

_An amendment: It has been brought to my attention by flossiepots that the Room of Requirement does not provide any sort of food to the students. Thank you for this. In the main text, I have removed this error, yet, for the sake of clarity, it will be replicated here:_

"_Fred takes one last look around before tickling the pear. I can hear its soft little giggle as it transfigures. Watching the door swing outwards, I ask, 'Why not the Room of Requirement?'_

'_Because the Room of Requirement doesn't have such good food,' they say together, rubbing their stomachs. 'Rather bland.'"_

_Thank you again. Please do not be afraid to clarify or ask any questions._

_-AA-_


	3. Spark

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**3: Spark**

The Fat Lady slows us down when the staircases did not. I am hunched over, my hands on my skirt-covered knees, gasping and trying to regain lost oxygen from running up a whole sevenfloors. 'You, girl, look awful,' she says. I stare at her. 'Your hair looks like brambles and your skin… what an odd colour!'

'You—' I say through gritted teeth. I puff heavily and look at the twins. I am glad to see their fists clenched.

The Fat Lady looks at her nails. 'I imagine you can't sing, either. Disgraceful.'

'Excuse me?' I retort.

'That's our friend you're insulting there,' George cautions. She turns her old, ugly eyes to the twins and I smile at their chivalry, but then I can only think of that photo, of trying to breathe, of getting into shape if I am going to war one year.

'Not forgotten what Gryffindors are known for, have you?' asks Fred warningly.

She sticks her nose in the air and asks, 'Password?' in her old, croaky voice that she thinks sounds regal.

'Animus,' George answers and the Fat Lady nods stiffly, her door swinging inwards. I stumble over the stone portal after the twins' loping gaits.

'Where is it?' I pant to Fred. We do not travel far.

'_What the bloody hell?!_' It is Ron's yelling and cursing, coming from the boy's dormitories, very, very loud. I do not think as I rush forward through the common room, throw open the door and start leaping up the stairs, probably looking like a crazy cat-lady as I notice Crookshanks' orange blur in my peripheral vision. I can hear Fred and George at my heels, chuckling whilst they run.

_They think this is funny?! _I slow down so they can pass me, slapping my hands against the stone walls of the tower's spiral staircase, because I have not a clue where I am going. They fly through the fifth door and I fall through after them.

We manage to arrive in a record time of less than ten seconds, skidding to a halt at the turmoil before us. Ron is staring at the photo in horror, his tight grasp crinkling the edges and his short, flaming red hair standing on end. He looks up as we burst through and locks his eyes on me. 'Is this true?' he bellows, holding it up and shaking it. 'This really happened?'

I am frozen, deliberating whether to lie and say I do not know what he is talking about, tell the truth, that I have fancied the Quidditch jock since third year, or accuse Fred and George of a rather harsh joke, all this even though I have no clue what the photo actually looks like.

The twins are not focused on Ron, however. Their Weasley Wizard Wheezes box is open on the table between their two outrageously decorated beds with its contents strewn across the floor in a jumbled mess. 'What the bloody hell are you doing in our stuff, Ron?' Fred yells. George shouts out his indignation at such a violation of their property and the two rush around the central fireplace, shoving Ron out of the way and stumbling forward. They bend to pack it all up, shooting glares at their raging brother.

'I was just looking for some new Extendable Ears when I find _this_! This… this… _thing_! It is true?' He grasps the picture in his hand and stares at me with his blue eyes dark like a thundering sky, and I feel the rock in my stomach turn into a knot and that knot tighten.

But I decide to stand up for myself, be a Gryffindor and be brave. I raise my chin, haughtily summoning the photo to me with _Accio _and watch as it is wretched away from Ron's slack grasp. My eyes scan it briefly. Oliver and I, the afternoon after Harry fell from the Dementors, running through the rain. My hand is in his and when we stop, he turns to me, and that look... that look was when I...

'Well?!'

'What do you think you are doing going through Fred and George's private things?' I snap, folding the photo carefully and placing it in my skirt pocket. Ron is silent as he glowers. I continue in a low voice to ask, 'Something to say, Ron? Can't handle the truth?'

Fred and George stop their packing, their heads shooting up to look at me from the floor surprise. I wink to them as Ron moves to close the door. I turn to keep him in my gaze, watching as he paces around the central fireplace.

There is a pregnant pause as the wheels turn in his head. Then he explodes, listing off all the things that are wrong with Oliver, and how my involvement would make them worse. Fred and George have finally remembered their magical abilities and are now sitting on their beds, leaning back against the headboards with their ankles crossed and I am getting tired of standing up for such a long lecture, the absence of adrenaline leaving me drained. So, when Ron arrives to his fourth point, yelling, 'Oliver's not even _at_ school. A long distance relationship? _Please!_' I motion for George to move his feet over and sit at the end of his bed. He smiles as I sink gratefully into the mattress and absently listen to Ron tramp around the circular room so much that I am surprised he is not dizzy.

Eventually, he notices that I am not standing up anymore, but sitting platonically with his brothers and looking through their files. He stomps over, 'What the hell are you doing?'

I turn the parchment over, casually shrugging while listening to the twins trying to stifle their sniggers. 'Waiting for you to grow up.'

'I'm the same age as you!'

'You're acting like a three year old!' I yell, throwing the file to George and jumping up, advancing toward him. 'Holding a room hostage with a temper tantrum when you don't get your own way is not the way to go. I don't need your approval because it's _my_ life and not _yours_!' I push him backwards. 'As my supposed _best friend_ I'd _expect_ you to understand that.'

He rights himself from where he had fallen against the bars of the metal fireplace and accuses, 'If I was your best friend, how come they knew before me? Or Harry, huh?'

'Because we're much smarter than you, Ronnikins,' Fred speaks up behind me, 'and Harry hasn't exactly been around much, has he?'

Ron scowls harder. He has always been wary of his brothers and the constant pressure to relive their glory days, how he can never seem to be good enough. Though getting Prefect was a worthy achievement, was it not? 'This is what you've been doing while we've been busy trying to stay alive, is it Hermione? Reeling in any hot-blooded male toward you and your bed?'

_Where did _that_ come from?_

The twins are either side of me now. I can hear their heavy breaths and I know their fists are clenched at their sides. Without taking my eyes off the teenager before me, I put a hand out to each side as they step forward, stopping them and whispering, 'Let him speak.'

'Under her charm, are you?' Ron laughs something hollow, bitter and empty that seems so foreign coming out of his mouth. 'Oliver sure isn't. Saw him talking to Katie Bell this afternoon. Looked pretty cosy.'

How can things turn so wrong so quickly?

'Get out,' the twins seethe. I cannot speak, my breath coming out in shallow gasps, my eyes to the floor. _It's not true, it's not true, don't cry. You insecure girl, it is nothing. He's lying_… Ron nods to them and, laughing, throws the door open.

I snap my eyes up at a screech and a burst of orange fluff as Crookshanks launches through the opening, attacking Ron's face, his hands, scratching and scraping with his sharp claws. 'Get off, you stupid furball!' he yells.

I rush around their tussle to stand with my back to the door and watch the spectacle for a moment in a kind of grim pleasure as Crookshanks works destruction. Fred and George are cheering, moving to stand behind me, yelling, 'Get him, Crookshanks! You bloody wicked cat!'

'Stop hurting him!' I squeal as Ron starts to beat Crookshanks with his fists.

'Get it off! Get it off! _Get it off me!_'

Then, almost reluctantly, I allow Ron a loud and clear proposition. 'If you stop acting like such a baby, you might see something else!' I yell haughtily.

'All right! All right!' His frantic declaration is muffled against the cat on his face. 'Just get the mangy thing off me!'

I regard him for a moment, before sighing and asking my half-kneazle to remove his claws, saying, 'Come on, my dear Crookshanks, that's enough.' He is a marmalade blur that jumps and runs under the nearest bed, his large, yellow eyes glinting in the shadows. 'Now, apologise and swear not to breathe a single _syllable_ about your findings.'

Ron scrambles up and stares indignantly at the three of us. His hair stands on end, scratched fingers shakily running through it and his pale face is a mess of red and raw cuts. 'Tell a soul,' Fred says from behind me, 'and you'll have more to worry about than a half-crazed cat.'

Ron's eyes are shifting between us, his body poised for a fight. 'Oh, Ron,' I snap, crossing my arms. 'Go to Madam Pomfrey already. She'll have some ointment for you and your scratches.'

'Sure thing, _Malfoy_,' he mutters as he pushes past us, intentionally hitting George's shoulder with his own. The door closes and I immediately feel drained. I collapse on Fred's bed and look up at the star-charmed canopy. 'You like stars, Fred?' I muse absently after a moment, staring up at them. Tears are wet on my cheeks. Where did they come from?

'Great for the imagination,' he says, sitting down next to me to wipe the tears away. 'George's got clouds. Did you see them?'

'Y-yes... very n-nice.' I roll over, away from them so they cannot see me cry and hear the photo crumple in my pocket. I am suddenly awash with anger at Ron, anger at myself and an infinite depression that seems to ensnare whatever hope I had. _Must be PMS_, I think absently. Fred lays a hand on my shoulder and I turn to see he and George, who is sitting on his bed, looking at me pensively. I narrow my eyes and wipe more tears away. 'What?'

'He's lying, you know.' George says quietly. 'Oliver might have been talking to Katie, but he doesn't fancy her, and she doesn't fancy him either.'

I do not ask how they know what Oliver does and does not like. Tears are still streaming down my face, tears that do not seem to stop. 'Why are you two so nice to me?' I sob, burying my face in Fred's pillow. 'I'm nothing but horrible to you… try to stop you killing yourself with your Puking Pastilles by being bossy… I don't understand.'

George grins. 'We know you're just jealous.'

'I am not!' I huff, bolting up, and almost hit my head on the wooden headboard.

''Course you are,' Fred says, patting my shoulder. I lie back down and curl on my side, clutching his pillow in my fist. Its familiar smell is comforting. 'But we've decided last night to remedy that problem and let you help us, like you did with the Ears.'

'And in return, we get you Oliver. It's a fair deal.' George's blue eyes twinkle from under his fringe as he beams.

I am rather doubtful that it is fair, or that I _want_ Oliver to know, but with these two on my case there is not much choice. And before, I cannot believe that I acted as if Oliver was somehow promised to me. What kind of person would do that, take away the choice from another person, imply something untrue in such a rotten situation? I was just as in the wrong as Ron was.

'Did you see the photo?' Fred asks. I nod and pull it out. 'See what we see?'

_He turns to me and that look... That was the day I fell in love with him._

'Yeah,' I say hoarsely. George rubs my back. 'I see it.' I put it away, back into my pocket. The memory gives me my rebirth.

Sighing, I ask, 'What's the time?' George reaches into his inner cloak pocket and produces a bright gold pocket watch and shows it to me. The hands circling the face are bells, like those of a joker's hat, on a blue background. 'Five in the evening,' I mutter, sitting up.

'Good, we're starving.'

'I am more,' Fred mutters. 'Least you got to finish your sandwich.'

'I'm still starving!'

'And so am I!'

'You both just ate,' I cry, astounded at the male ability to digest food so fast. The twins forget their quarrel and pat their stomachs.

'Ron's always been a bit of a handful. We were about to give him two knuckle sandwiches before you stopped us. And we did it right out of the goodness of our hearts.'

'Ickle Ronnikins better watch his back,' George threatens darkly. He moves, kneels beside the bed and takes my hand while Fred drops from the bed, kneels and takes the other. 'He was one step away from calling you a… you know.'

My mouth sets hard, and I look down at their hands, Umbridge's sadism still a strong scarlet. 'A slut, I know.' I burst into tears.

'Right. He's dead.'

'No!' I cry, grabbing onto their shoulders. 'I just… it's not even that. I'll get over it.'

The twins nod solemnly. After a moment, Fred says, 'We think you should tell Harry.'

'I will,' I promise. 'Why… Why is no one bursting in the door? He was louder than a mandrake!'

'Oh, that. Silencing charm. Not surprised you didn't hear it, are we Fred?'

'Not at all. He's as good as yelling as he is at ignoring the need for table manners. _We_ know that's what gets us girls.'

I grin at that and suddenly my stomach rumbles. 'I'm _famished_,' I say, looking down in surprise.

Fred and George jump from the floor and hold out their arms. 'Then let us escort you!'

I smile as they pull me off the bed and take my hands. They wipe the rest of the tears away, assure me I look more than presentable, and I allow myself to be pulled down the spiral staircase. Crookshanks follows after us, slinking low to the ground and purring.

_-x-x-x-_

Dinner was a sordid affair. Ron kept shooting glares at me from across the table and Harry was unusually quiet. Something was not quite right in the way he pushed his food around with his fork. He seemed pensive, not sad or angry as he so often was this year, simply pensive. Oliver was nowhere to be seen and I was glad when it was over.

Now, at seven o'clock, sitting at the library's back table and finishing off a book about human transfiguration before it closes, I am free from glares, idiots and attractive Quidditch jocks and am surrounded by the smell of new parchment, old books and, most of all, _knowledge_. No distractions from my work.

A loud crash sounds from the library's entrance. I poke my head out from behind my tower of books and parchment and watch a male, slightly tall with brown hair and a dark blue cloak, pull themselves up from the floor, and find myself scowling at the interruption of the peace. I am not the only one: Madam Pince has her sharp nailed hands on her hips and her feather duster clenched tight in her fist and her black hair in its extremely tight bun shines menacingly. I consider myself lucky that I am not on the receiving end of her wrath. She looks like a raven Medusa.

Though, this _is _a library.

Just as quickly does that thought appear that it vanishes and is replaced by a deep desire to apparate as far away as possible: Oliver Wood is in the library. In fact, Oliver Wood is less than five metres away. Blushing behind my fort of books, it briefly crosses my mind that he could be looking for me… it is quickly squashed. Looking for me? Now that is a laugh.

'Hello.'

I suppress the urge to squeal.

'I'm looking for a book.' He is standing next to the table, peering at me over the tower.

'We,' I clear my throat, trying to lower my voice an octave. 'We have a librarian.'

Oliver smiles and rubs the back of his neck. 'Yeah, we sure do. Though, Fred and George told me you sleep here and I thought you, rather than the librarian, were my best bet.'

'Fred and George are lying,' I say, managing to breathe enough to uncurl my shoulders and sit taller, holding my hands tightly. 'Contrary to popular belief, Madam Pince does _not_ have a bed in the back for me. She wouldn't tolerate it, at any rate.'

'She _is _rather strict,' he laughs, his hands disappearing into the folds of his cloak. 'I thought she might beat me with her feather duster for a minute there.'

The words fall out before I can catch them and I ask, 'Are you okay?'

There is a pause where he seems to look me over, and I shift slightly in my seat under his intense gaze, my stomach on the floor, my mind crying, _stupid, stupid, stupid_. My blush has crept from my neck to my cheeks, a deep, slightly blotchy red that makes me look flushed and hot. Oliver's eyes flick again and he clears his throat. 'Yeah, thanks. About that book. Don't worry,' he adds quickly, mistaking the twist of my lips from nerves for a grimace, 'nothing 'bout Quidditch. It's a novel, I think. Arnold Hunterberry's _Godsend_. Heard of it?'

Thankful for the distraction from his close proximity and the butterflies flitting about in my stomach, I ponder for a moment before smiling and crying, 'Oh! Yes I have, read it, that is.' I rise and try not to touch him as I talk. 'Action adventure wizarding novel, protagonist Edwin. Rather nice characterisation.'

'Good book?' he asks, grinning at my enthusiasm. I look at him and note his laughing eyes that dance with mirth.

I have to turn away. 'I'll show you,' I say and we walk in silence and I hear every sound he makes, the thudding of his big boots, the rustle of our cloaks, my tight breathing, even his breathing when we stop and he seems to be alarmingly close. If I stepped back, I would run into him. If I moved my knee, it would brush his and if I turned we would be close enough that I could lean forward to kiss him and he me. And yet, since we are at the small wizard novels section, dwarfed by the masses of non-fiction texts of the Hogwarts library, I step away to bend down and search for the author. I pull it out when I find it. 'Here you go,' I say, proud of myself for not stuttering, and hold it out for him.

I am back to a bundle of nerves as his fingers brush mine and my breath hitches. Oliver says, 'Thanks,' and pauses.

We do not move and I quickly lower my gaze. This is different than with Harry or the twins or Ron, even Viktor last year against these shelves.

'Are you coming to the game this Saturday?' he asks. Now I do look at him. A small smile touches his lips.

I nod, trying to quell the blush on my cheeks unsuccessfully. 'Who isn't?'

'Yeah, good point. Well… I'll – er – see you there.' He clears his throat and strides away, clutching the book. Dazed, I manage to stumble back to my table and fall into the seat. It is almost eight o'clock when Madam Pince rings her bell, signalling any stragglers to get out of her domain or, Merlin help her, they may not make it out alive. And what have I been doing all this time? Staring out the window through glazed eyes with my chin resting on one hand, an elbow propped up on the table, and my mind on replay of those last events, enough for me to come to the conclusion that I am an idiot. Or, someone smart who is easily tongue-tied. Maybe shy. I pack up and try to ignore Madam Pince's thin, vulture-like face and her withering stare as I hurry away.

In the corridors, I decide I need to talk to Harry.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	4. Loyalty

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**4: Loyalty**

The common room is busier than usual. But, I reason to myself, today _is_ a Friday and the Quidditch game verses Slytherin _is _tomorrow. Unintentionally, I note that Oliver is talking adamantly to Lee, Fred and George. Their hands swing about, making signs and symbols about balls, goalposts and players to do with only one thing: Quidditch. I feel a thrill when I notice he is clutching _Godsend_. Ginny is on a couch, twisted around to look at her brothers, smiling bemusedly. Neville is reading a Herbology book by her side.

And there is Harry, sitting at a table near the fire and talking to Ron with their heads bent over yet another game of Wizard's Chess. Ron is, predictably, winning. I approach them, unwilling to let the constant tension with Ron ruin my relationship with Harry, and kneel down on the red carpet, facing the side of the chessboard. I can feel Ron's glare, I grit my teeth and will myself not to snap at him. I turn to Harry as he raises his dark head. 'Harry. Can I talk to you?'

He has every right to reject it, saying that Ron and I are children, that we should not be keeping secrets. I agree, we should be open and that is why I tell myself that now is the time to let Harry in and stay true to our friendship. I hope that is why he is nodding, albeit the curious, confused look filling his green eyes as to why the separation from Ron. I hope he realises that it is because I think Ron is a black vulture with me set to be his mate for life, angry and accusing philandering with any 'hot-blooded male' that comes my way. Harry must realise that Ron is imaging feasting on Oliver's dead carcass and locking me in a cage for eternity. I am rather bitter, I realise suddenly. _Thank you Oliver. Thank you Fred and George. You have my gratitude._

Harry stands and follows me as I walk with stiff steps out of the common room and through the corridor to a secluded part of the stairway. Hearing them creaking behind me as I turn to face him does not make me feel any better. 'Hermione?' asks Harry, obviously concerned. 'What is it?'

I take a breath. 'I have something to tell you.'

'Oh, good,' he says in a whoosh, as if a burden has dropped from his shoulders, 'because I have something to tell _you_.' I look at him as he smiles lopsidedly, and wonder if it is bad and if he has told Ron. 'But you can go first.'

Harry thinks he is awarding me a favour.

On my return from the library, my brilliant mind deduced that there are only two possible ways to tell Harry, which is something I simply _must_ do, whilst keeping a small piece of my credibility attached. One: put on a poker face, get straight to the point and ignore all subsequent disbelief. Two: live up to the fact that I am a sixteen-year-old _girl_ full of hormones and unresolved sexual tension, complete with mind-numbing fantasies, and spill my guts to the fifteen-year-old _boy_ who, to my knowledge, is in the same predicament, whilst all the while squashing down the inevitable desire to run away in hysterics.

Considering I cannot play poker to save my life, let alone integrity, I have no choice but to go with deduction two. Surely Harry, sweet, innocent, boy-who-lived, fellow adolescent Harry, can understand?

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I start to speak. 'Oliver-Wood-makes-me-go-all-a-flutter-and-I-have-to-tell-you-this-because-the-mavolent-twins-are-forcing-me-and-Ron-is-a-jealous-git-who-is-threatening-to-tell-you-instead-and-I-think-you-should-hear-it-from-me-instead-of-him-because-I-want-to-keep-my-integrity.'

I hang my head, feeling my cheeks burn and take a large gulp of air. Harry will understand my Firebolt speech. He will.

'What?'

He _does_ not and he _will_ not and _cannot_. I desperately fight the urge to flee to the bathrooms. Maybe I just have to wait.

'I didn't catch all that.'

_Damn it!_

Raising my head a notch to peek through my mane of bushy brown hair, I see no dawn of comprehension, but a very large stamp of confusion covering his face. 'I… Oh, Harry. _Please_ don't make me say it again.'

Harry sighs. 'Hermione, I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong.'

'It's not wrong, exactly... no, not at all,' I suddenly wish Fred and George were here. _They're not here to save you. Suck it up, Granger_, I scold myself. 'All right…' I swallow and stare into his confused green eyes. 'Harry, I like Oliver Wood.'

It seems so easy now I have said it.

'Well, yes... I like him too. What's so special about that?' He is clearly bewildered and I sigh. _No wonder he couldn't get a real date for the Yule Ball. _His ignorance spurs me on and I nod patiently, trying to ignore the blush once again creeping up my neck.

'No, Harry. I – er – I _fancy_ him.'

'Yes, but… oh… Oh!' There it is: the dawning of comprehension. I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that it is over. Now, next step to bravery is to tell the boy in question…

But Harry's green eyes are gleaming with something I cannot place. 'Harry?'

'I'm glad you said that,' he says, his messy, long raven hair swishing slightly as he bends his head in a slow nod. 'I'm _really_ glad you said that.'

'Why?'

'Lost aren't you?' I am helpless but to think he gains satisfaction at my confusion, but I know it is a kind of sibling rivalry. 'Well, it's about what I had to tell you. I kind of disappeared during training yesterday. Not sure if you noticed…'

'Yes, I did notice. Angelina didn't.'

He grins, leaning casually against the wall, 'Not Oliver?' I blush, just as he intended, and shake my head and quickly divert his attention.

'So, where did you go?' His own cheeks gain a tinge of pink. I immediately understand. I grin, and say, 'A _girl_, yes?'

'Well, what else, a boy?' I shake my head, chuckling at his defensiveness. He continues, shifting so that his back is against solid wall and kicks the stone with his feet, 'I flew off to meet her at the astronomy tower. Rather handy for a rendezvous. All you have to do is fly in.'

'You're avoiding it, Harry.'

'And you weren't?'

'Touché,' I say, grinning back. 'So, did you kiss her?'

His head shoots up, and his face turns beet-red. 'Hermione!'

'Well, did you?'

'Fred and George are a bad influence on you. I should have stopped those troublemakers years ago.' I nod, deciding against a retort. 'And no, I didn't. It's a… complicated relationship. I'm not sure where we stand.'

He stops and I stubbornly prompt him, 'Does she have a name?' I know her name, from the last Hogsmeade visit. Fred and George really are a bad influence on me.

Harry's green eyes regard me for a minute, searching for something. I am glad he finds it. 'Cho… I was meeting Cho Chang.'

I smile slightly, but then frown.

To say I am apprehensive is an understatement and I fail quite miserably to hide it. She is still struggling with her grief for Cedric's death, sometimes in the bathrooms, crying her eyes out, or in the hallways where her cheeks always seem too red for someone with pale skin.

'I know!' Harry suddenly starts pacing, running his hands through his thick hair, 'You're really good at feelings and stuff, Hermione, and I'm not. I know she's so cut up about Cedric's death. I am too. I saw him _die_, Hermione! But I can't help it… she's just… she's…'

'Like summer rain?' I ask tentatively, watching as he stops and his jaw falls slack and fists unclench as he nods.

'Yeah…' he whispers, staring at me as if he is seeing me for the first time. 'That's it: like summer rain.'

Harry animatedly relays all about how her hair is _very_ shiny and her skin _flawless_ with his eyes glazed over and dreamy expression on his face for a good ten minutes before I can get a word in. By now, I do not really feel worthy to walk the same corridor as the perfect Cho Chang, let alone think I have a chance at my own relationship, and almost irritably interrupt his gushing. 'Does _Ron_ know?' I ask.

He stops abruptly with his hands frozen in mid air, up to the point of describing her straight teeth, and says, 'Well… actually, no he doesn't. I should tell him, shouldn't I?'

I nod from my place against the stone balustrade, replying, 'Friendship equals loyalty equals honesty. But I suppose saying that makes me a hypocrite.'

Harry laughs lightly. 'So that was it? Okay... Anyway, thanks for listening, Hermione, you're a great friend. Don't know how Oliver resists you.'

My voice turns bitter as I look away and mumble, 'I've got a pretty good idea.'

'Nah, Hermione,' Harry says, reaching forward to grasp my arm, smiling. 'Don't be so hard on yourself. You're _brilliant_.'

I shake my head at his gestures, wondering how Harry can deter Dark Lords and be so blind to the truth behind everyone's façade. 'Well I'm not _feeling_ very brilliant. Tired actually: confessions are rather draining. Still, I promised the twins I'd help them with their potion.' It is not lying. It is the truth… just not the whole truth. I struggle to contain it.

'Sure. I think they're helping you with more than that.' I drop my gaze further and know Harry has caught on. Oh_, _I think, not so blind after all_._ 'Come on, you can tell me on the way back.'

There he is; ever understanding Harry. I convey to him the real reason why the twins and I are inseparable lately, even more than before, and why I cannot be so focused on my studies. I am proud of myself for not gushing… much. Harry laughs at this truth in a good humoured way that I am profoundly grateful for. 'You should talk to Ron about tomorrow. He's not feeling very confident, is he?' I add as we come to the Fat Lady.

'No,' Harry admits, then he smiles, 'Having a lot of these deep and meaningfuls, aren't we? Animus.'

Ron is gone when we arrive back. I share a look with Harry, watch as he trudges slowly up the boy's stairs, obviously practicing an apology, and stand still, simply hoping he will remember a silencing charm and save me a headache.

My eyes scan the thinning crowd. Oliver has left again. Seamus, Dean, Padma and Parvati are talking in low voices over a table, a few first years yawn in the squashy armchairs and some are even curled up on the lounges while a few third years look on and shake their heads. Ginny and Neville are kicking their heels up on the coffee table, which I personally think is rather disrespectful even if it _is_ Ginny and Neville, talking and laughing about something. The beautiful Weasley throws her head back over the pillows with her silky mane of vivid, flaming red hair fanning out behind, and her laughter shines. Then I catch sight of Fred, George and Lee talking seriously, standing near the noticeboard and frowning at each other. They look like they are having an argument so I do not disturb them.

Sighing slightly, just about dead on my feet from a day full of classes and attacking butterflies, I walk over to Ginny and bend my head over so she can see me, careful to catch my mass of hair as it falls. 'Gin, can you tell Fred and George I'll talk to them later? I'm really tired.' She looks at me with her bright brown eyes, completely puzzled. 'They'll understand. When they say goodnight, tell them goodnight from me too.' Ginny nods, wrinkles her nose and freckles in goodnight to give me a laugh. I simply smile, wave to Neville and trudge upstairs again. I hope Lavender is not snoring too loud. I hope she stays asleep.

Tonight I feel like sin.

_-x-x-x-_

The common room's light blinds me as I make my way down the steps at ten in the evening, grumbling to myself. I am cursing the fact I cannot sleep properly because of Ron. I curse the fact I care so much, even though he _was_ particularly nasty. I curse the fact that I am cold in my blue dressing gown and my hair is knotted and I cannot remove my thoughts from the boys of my world.

Then I discover I am not the only one awake and I curse that too. I halt by the door.

Ron Weasley sits on the couch near the fire, his arm across its back and freckled hand cradling a glass of water, silent as the dead. I stop to watch him stare into the flames to see if he will notice and clutch my gown tighter around my body when he does not. I grasp the sash in my hand and pull and think that I have had enough of this argument. I know why he did it and why he always fights.

Ron is loyal to a fault. He always wants solid proof that his friends are safe in what they are dealing with and if he thinks he is right, he will never, ever apologise. In this instance, I think that he knows this is different.

His tired voice makes me jump. 'You can come over, Hermione,' he says, lolls his red head over the couch's back and waits. Slowly, cautiously and tentatively, I make my way over, scuffing my slippers on the ground so he knows where I am. I stop in front of him. He is wearing the maroon Weasley jumper he always claims to hate, frowning. 'Have a seat. I won't bite.'

I sit on the couch next to him, my back straight and shoulders square. 'Ron? Ron, I'm—'

'Don't say you're sorry,' he interrupts, still staring into the fire. I frown in confusion. 'We always go through this and you always apologise. This time, I'll admit that I was…' His jaw clenches. 'That I was _wrong_.' I smile, and my eyes begin to shine. I bite my lip in an attempt to hide my glee. He looks quickly at me. 'Go ahead and enjoy your win while I try and get this out. Have a field day. I tell you, Wood's a nice bloke and all, but if he tries anything I'll beat him up.'

'Ron!' I admonish, shoving his shoulder.

'Just telling it like it is, Hermione. Speak for yourself. We all protect what's ours, don't we?' I nod at that and he looks the other way, swirling the water. 'I mean… You… I'm just… just…'

'Scared?'

'No—sort of—well, yeah,' Ron finally admits. I fold my legs underneath me and put a hand on his arm. He refuses to meet my gaze and continues, 'Scared of losing you, any of you. We're always fighting, you're going off with boys, reminding me you really are a _girl_, and Harry's… well, Harry's going barmy and told me about Cho… weird that one… and I'm obsessed with—nevermind, and you're going off with Fred and George—'

'You're afraid of losing me to the twins?'

'Well… yeah! Now that you mention it, yeah, I am!' he cries, sitting up and turning to me. 'You're always with 'em and all, especially now, but from the middle of third year, right? I mean, I know I was wrong about Scabbers, can't believe I let that slimy murderer in the same bed as me, but I'm always losing everything to them and…' He stops and drinks some water, staying silent as if he said too much, staring at the folds of the couch.

'And?' I prompt. He slowly places the water on the floor.

'And… they were right.' Ron says quickly. I bite my lip again. 'Bloody hell, this is _not_ a good night for me.' He takes a deep breath and meets my gaze again. 'I'm sorry, calling you "Malfoy" was bad enough but I almost called you a…a… I'm sorry! I was _angry_. I say stupid things when I'm angry, turn into an absolute git.' He shakes his head, freezes and abruptly turns a nasty shade of grey, shuddering as he collapses back against the longue in a tangled heap. 'And the g-game's tomorrow. I don't think I could even get out of bed without your support. I'm just… while we're on this road, so bloody scared of losing you, losing at _all_. Hermione! I'll be a better Prefect if you stay with me!'

'Oh, Ron!' I cry, my voice filled with happy emotion, and jump forward to hug him around the neck.

'You're choking me, girl.' I laugh into his shoulder and relax my grip. He awkwardly pats me on the back. 'Right, yeah. Well, don't get too excited. I say stupid things when I'm apologising too.' I pull back and beam through my tears, leaning over him. 'Off to bed with you. And don't start,' he says, noting me opening my mouth. 'I'll go right after I finish my stiff drink here.' He swirls the water and raises his glass.

I nod, kiss his cheek quickly, revelling in his pink ears and flaming blush, and jump away. As I am walking to the stairs my feet slow. 'Ron?' I ask. 'Do you think I have a chance?'

He does not turn his head or answer immediately but I smile when he does. 'Like you do to me, you'd give him too many chances. I think he'd be bloody fool to miss them.'

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_(Sorry it's late)._

_-AA-_


	5. Fanning the Flames

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**5: Fanning the Flames**

I am out in the light, and the light is black. I look up: an oracle sun, a juxtaposed solar eclipse of the moon and sun. It burns me, fuels me, my photosynthesis constant.

I am out in the light and the light shows a lake. Not the Black Lake, not the lake near my small, suburban home in Greater London, not the Burrow's shallow pools. It is deep and dark and foreign, and inside it is my mother and my father, and they are drowning. They have forgotten how to swim and all they do is thrash below the surface of the water, yelling for help. My help. I must save my parents, my loves.

But as I motion to move, I cannot. I look down: shackles on my feet, a deep, haunting black of hard and unforgiving iron. Frantically, I pull at it, my every thought to help my parents to quell my fear that they might die. But I am scared. It is my fright that holds me captive, not the ball and chain. My cowardice, my lack of bravery, erupts into voice-fright. I cry out to them: 'Oh, Mum! Oh, Dad! I'm so sorry I'm not brave!'

Then there is Oliver. Then there is a voice, and it is his voice, and he asks of me, 'How could I love a coward like you?'

I stare helplessly, crying, 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' to my parents as I cut into the skin of my ankle, pulling at the chain with all my might. My ankle loses all feeling and I bleed. He saves them while I watch, and they embrace him like a son, walking paradoxically dry along the shore. I pull more and more, trying to follow their bravery, fruitlessly, in vain, until I faint from the exertion and fall to the ground.

Darkness enshrouds me,

I open my eyes: black, then faint moonlight.

I am walking down a corridor. It is dark outside and darker inside. There is only one window that shows a thin crescent moon and cloud covered stars, and I have already passed it. My footfalls are eerily silent. I look down; I am wearing red socks. I do not own red socks. I own white, navy blue and black socks because regulation demands it, and why have socks only for the weekend? But suddenly I think to myself, why am I focusing on socks? I clench my fists in thought, only to find that I am carrying a candle in one hand and a box of matches in the other, and I look down at them in the heavy darkness, perplexed. The confusion terrifies me.

I feel my way up the sleeve of my muggle pyjamas with the matches clutched tight. The pockets of the pants are empty too. I do not have my wand and momentarily miss its reassuring presence. Where is my wand? Why am I in an unknown, very dark corridor without a wand? Still walking, only slower as my confusion deepens, I realise that I do not really need a wand: this is Hogwarts, safest place in Britain, safer than Gringotts and more protected than Azkaban, its Headmaster feared by the Minister of Magic, feared by Voldemort, protecting us from Umbridge and the Ministry. I should not be scared, I realise, but I strike the match and light the candle anyway. I am not afraid of the dark, but what could use darkness to its advantage. _Be brave, be brave, _I tell myself and try to find a clue by shining the light toward the portraits of wizards and knights that line the corridors. The frames are empty; the protective mages and knights are gone with nothing to replace them. Maybe this is not Hogwarts after all.

There are no doors adjoining to this corridor, not so far. I consciously speed up my walking, the weak light of my single candle bobbing along in front. What does this mean? Where is everyone? Where is reality?

The questions drape themselves around me. I want answers to questions that I am not even sure are the right ones. The right answers to the wrong questions, or the right questions to the wrong answers? Are they even supposed to be asked? I wish for a hand to hold mine because I feel so alone and confused in this darkness with a fast waning light. Loneliness is not something that abundance in knowledge, a reliable memory or a sharp tongue can cure or fix and it was never something I have been able to fight because being able at everything academically means failing at everything else spectacularly. Now, as a result, I do not know how to fight off something I cannot see and the remedy is not something that can be looked up in a textbook. I am sixteen and lost in something infinite. I am sixteen and a practical coward.

The elusive problem wants an elusive solution; where does it end? Is that the right question; a question of beginnings and their respective conclusions? Are questions an answer? If I am me, I am very confused. This is a situation I cannot analyse. I want to scream myself hoarse, for help, for Hogwarts, for anyone.

Suddenly, a noise echoes from behind me, a thrumming sound of _ahhhhh!_ It is too soft, too far away, but it is getting louder and closer. I wave the candle around wildly, searching for the answers with its dancing shadows and flickering flame, flattening myself against an empty canvas in hope to imprint myself within and escape the repeating voice that is too jumbled for my frightened senses. It sounds of danger and that danger beats down upon me. Then it is silent.

There is nothing but the soft heat of the flame and the coolness of the painting against my back and the night air whispering across my skin. I cannot feel anything else but these and my warm, red pyjamas. I can feel nothing.

But I can feel something. It is on my other hand from behind, the one holding the matches, enclosed upon my wrist, like a thick bracelet or a snake. I jump, but they hold tight, they pull. Fingers: I look down in an unnatural slow motion to trail my eyes up from the bitten-down nails to the rather short fingers and large palm. The wrist is passed, the arm covered in a blue sleeve and the sleeve attached to the shoulder of a hooded jumper, and there is a moment where I am focusing on the neck, very aware that this person is distinctly male by the thoughts of quick passion that slither their way into my mind, where I am too hesitant to continue raising my eyes. But I must because time is slowly speeding up and my moments of exploration are running out and I remember that I was previously scared – alone – in the dark. I bypass the strong jaw and slightly red, slightly pink lips to take notice of a faintly inquisitive nose. It is only when I reach the deep, brown eyes – black tea with a dash of milk – and long, brown fringe falling into their wild depths that I realise I have always associated flight with Oliver Wood.

Time resumes and I am suddenly in the present with him. Oliver tugs at my wrist, his quiet and urgent voice snapping me out of a daze. 'Hermione,' he breaths, and I am glad I am me. 'Umbridge is coming. I stalled her so far but we've got to move, right now!'

'Where can we hide?' I whisper in reply, confused as to where the words are coming from. 'I don't know where I am.'

'I do. Come on, run!' Oliver pulls me along, taking my hand. It tingles and sends shivers up my arm. We rush forward into the impending darkness, the bobbing, wildly flickering and persistent candle revealing only a metre ahead before there is a brown door to the right of the never ending corridor. We hurtle through, falling into shelves and buckets on the floor and I crash into Oliver like a carriage to an engine in an explosive train wreck. He holds his hands on my shoulders and leans against the shelves, taking the brunt of the impact to his back. 'Okay?' he asks as we stand upright. I nod, feeling light-headed by how near he is and take a step back, but find I cannot backtrack more than that step.

'We're in a broom cupboard,' I say. I suddenly remember that I am in my pyjamas and my hair must look like brambles. I turn slightly to close the door and fold an arm across my chest and feel worse when I turn back to him. A nervous knot forms in my stomach as Oliver reaches over and takes the candle, a brush of fingers that sends shivers down my spine. He raises his eyebrows, locks his eyes with mine and his breath falls across my face, flying through the air as he blows the flame away. The darkness swallows the light.

Despite my bouts of bravery, despite me being very much aware of the fact that I am not alone, I begin to wring my hands and pant out quick breaths in a fear of not knowing what is around me. My senses work by a tenfold. I can hear his level breathing. I can feel my pounding heart. I cannot see him shift but I am aware that he has, of his own inhalation as he fumbles for my hands and brings them up to the back of his neck. Oliver steps forward, my body closer to his and his to mine so much that I can feel his deep breaths on my face and smell the sporty cologne that I always thought he would wear.

For some reason, I do not question these actions or whether Umbridge really is coming and this is just a ploy of seduction. Neither do I wonder if he has a wand to cast a disillusionment charm or hold a defence. It slips my mind to ask what he was doing in the corridor too. In this instance, I am content with not knowing the answers and realise that this, which should be too much, is not nearly enough.

I lean forward as well, taking a hand from the back of his neck and slowly find my way around his face. Throat, chin, jaw and mouth. Lips: my fingers trace their curve with feather light touches as his hand tracks up my arm to find my own and the other grips my hips and drags me closer. His fingers leave tingles, like the embers of fire, rushing across my shivering lips. The darkness makes this teasing exploration so alluring, bewitching and captivating that the foreplay seems to go on forever before we are an inch away. I lick my lips in anticipation.

Testing and trying, he brushes soft, slightly chapped lips against mine for less than a second before we meet. Hands are on my cheeks, soft fingers caressing my temples and winding their way into my hair. Suddenly we are seeking each other as my hands tangle into his short, thick hair and he pulls me flush against his stocky body. My blood is oil on fire, my head is reeling and I cannot think straight at all. I only briefly realise that a first, third, tenth kiss in the depths of the library, pressed hard against the shelves by Viktor Krum was nothing compared to this feeling of pure bliss and elation that consumes me. Viktor has _nothing_ on the man with pure determination and focus that makes me moan and go weak at the knees.

Oliver sees me as something to centre his passion on now and I have no objections whatsoever to his devouring lust. He presses me against the wooden door rather than the shelves which would have dug into my back. His mouth leaves mine and returns at my neck, pushing my ruffled, bed-head of hair out of the way and I have lost myself completely. Moans and half escaped yelps as he bites my sensitive skin roughly are something that I never thought could slip out my throat. They seem too foreign, only made for romance novels, not non-fiction bookworms such as I. Oliver caresses my thigh and I arch my back and neck, bite swollen lips to keep from crying out.

My taste, touch and hearing are all on overdrive. My senses are on fire. I am addicted to his impossible, compelling and fierce emotional capacity that is driving me insane. Even if I were to open my heavy lidded eyes, it would be the same, because there would still be only he and I. If the light had survived, it would not matter. In the darkness, he lifts me up against the door and I taste his lips once more and wrap my legs around him and think about never letting go. Light has no place. Sight is not needed.

This is better than my constant fantasies. My hand travels under his jumper, my lips move with his. This is better than a dream.

'It's time to rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!'

His cool skin and hot kisses instantly fall away and I consider murdering whoever has woken me up as I find I cannot fall with them. The bed hangings are drawn and a sharp wand-light floods onto my face.

'Leave now if you wish to live,' I threaten. The drumming pulse of my dream-self's desire is pooling in my legs, and all I want to do is attend to it before the images flood away. But the twins are relentless and they would tease me forever if they knew the dirty truth. I reluctantly let it slide, biting my lip and choking on a trailing groan.

I do not want to open my eyes so much that I loathe the thought of light and reality. Desperately, I throw my extra pillow in the direction of the voice. There is an absent thud. Damn, I curse, damn.

They whistle. 'Ooh. Someone's grumpy.'

Suddenly, I am very cold as my covers disappear and I curl up instantly, whining into my pillow, 'Go _away_, you prats.'

'Intelligent too.' I crack open an eye at their bright, blurry forms bent over my bed, eyes peering at me. Just as I catch sight of my comforter on the floor one of them starts to speak. 'Hermione, you promised you'd help us with our merchandise production. And you _will_ help us, otherwise we'll yell very, very loudly.'

I consider this. Helping the twins, ultimately sacrificing no more than two hours of sleep, or letting them wake up the biggest gossipers in the castle, sacrificing a lifetime. Definitely a hard choice.

'Fine,' I grumble. 'Just put that light out. Do _not_ wake up Lavender.' Lavender is, amazingly, still snoring and mumbling little cries. Maybe she dreams of a lover too.

They take the comforter out with them as they laugh quietly and I grab my wand from the top of my dresser. I think about sabotaging their pranks from here on as my shaky legs take me stumbling out the door. I shut it quietly behind me and take each step slowly with my eyes half shut. I try desperately to recall the dream. I still feel weak at the knees.

They are waiting at the bottom of the stairs for me. Everything is too bright and they are _much _too chirpy. I stop. 'What time is it?'

'Midnight.'

'Right,' I say, turning around, '_I_ am going back to bed.' But I do not make it back, not even close. One twin grabs me around the waist and spins me around and around until I am just about to scream before he drops me on the rug. I pause in shock and cry, 'Why? Why are you doing this to me? Why torture me so?'

'To wake you up. Seemed to have worked, didn't it George?'

Now I notice their jumpers are gold with blue letters this time, recently knitted, but I ignore them, walk past, and snatch the comforter out of their grasp, muttering, 'I'm not even going to _ask_ how you got up there.' I wrap it around my shoulders and wrestle the door open, pad across the carpet of the common room and collapse on the lounge facing the fire. I briefly notice their products and an empty cauldron spread out on the coffee table.

They sit down to my left. 'But you want to know, don't you?'

'Yes,' I admit slowly, turning on my side and propping my head up on the arm.

'Another staircase to the left,' says Fred.

'Just before the door, behind the tapestry of the lioness,' clarifies George.

'The Marauder's Map?'

They beam ecstatically. 'Of course!'

'I thought so.!' I yawn, holding my hand, over my mouth, and clutch a pillow to my stomach. I shut my eyes: his desire hinted in his gaze, the candle he holds extinguished but not the one in my heart.

'Right, so, which "problem" first?' George unnecessarily asks. I know which problem they want to talk about. The two share a look that I do not like and Fred, sitting beside him, looks at me, grinning widely.

'So, what happened in the library? Anything juicy?'

I groan into the pillow.

'Oh it was that good was it?'

'I'm sure she was a bundle of nerves.' I raise my head in indignation. My retort has no place in this one sided conversation, and I settle for staring at them.

'Though, he didn't look too flash when he came back,' Fred continues. 'You _did_ give him a book, didn't you?'

'Of course she did. Saw him carrying it, in fact, probably reading it right now. Hermione, we know you would never let him leave without one.' They grin.

'But of course those are traits that he likes about you,' Fred says.

'Focus,'

'Determination,'

'Passion,'

'And definitely logic.'

'Not to mention intelligence,'

'Defiance,'

'An unusual amount of good luck,'

'Beauty,'

'And who can forget your extreme magical talent?'

'Basically, he thinks you're fantastic. And we're going to help him tell that to you—'

'—and you to him—'

'—and in return you're going to help with this most troublesome antidote.' They clasp their hands together and lean forward eagerly.

I scoff. 'I'm sure he does _not_ think that,' I stress and look around the room. Crookshanks appears out of nowhere and jumps onto my lap, purring contently. I scratch his ears and return their unblinking stares. 'Does he really?'

'Yes,' they chorus immediately. Now I am completely awake.

'We abducted him on his way back when we saw the book. Pushed all his buttons,' George explains. 'Cracked before we were through, too, started gushing about you.' Nodding slowly, I shift on the squashy lounge. 'The jealousy problem is solved now, too.' They reach forward and pat my knees. 'Hermione, darling, it just wouldn't work out.' I glower at them and their theatrics, and Crookshanks, who usually is quite affectionate toward the two, growls.

'Nice kitty,' Fred adds, holding his hands up in mock innocence.

George reaches over and pats the Kneazle's head tentatively, continuing, '_Your_ problem's confidence..'

I stare at them, blink – see the dream-figure branding me with his gaze – and say, 'All right, what have we got here?'

Fred and George roll their eyes at the deliberate change of subject. 'Down to business. Those,' Fred points to a pile of purple sweets, 'are Nosebleed Nougats.'

George picks one up and asks hopefully, 'Want a demonstration?' I glare at him and he tosses it back. 'Didn't think so. The aim's to find out an antidote to the Nougats, otherwise the consumer's gonna bleed to death. We really should have given one of these to Ron. Maybe we can slip one in his cereal tomorrow…'

'Not that I _approve_ of that,' I scold, 'but I doubt Ron will be eating anything tomorrow. Do _any_ Quidditch players eat before a game?'

Fred shakes his head, 'We're supposed to, but it's the nerves. Do you eat before an exam? Not really, huh? Bet you got that little piece of info from Oliver's Hogwarts days.'

I wriggle, falling deeper within the comforters embrace. 'I might have. Now, the antidote needs...'

I stay with the twins until well past two o'clock, locating charms and potions that might work and brainstorming with them while the fire started to die.

Smiling sleepily when we are done, I lean back against the lounge, just about ready to fall into Oliver's arms again, and murmur, 'Thanks Fred and George.' Fred and George for once do not look like they have never-ending bundles of energy. They actually seem tired, leaning against one another and staring off into space. Just as sleepily, they nod their own thanks. I get up, pushing the pile of heavy books to one side. 'If you two play admirably during tomorrow's game,' I propose, slowly folding the comforter around my shoulders to cover my blue pyjamas, 'I'll bend the rules a bit. We'll have a party like never before.' I call Crookshanks over. 'There may even be dancing.'

George raises his head from Fred's shoulder, who is asleep with his head lolling back against the lounge, and smiles warmly. In a hushed, almost surprised voice, George whispers, 'Dancing? Well then… it's a sure thing, innit?'

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	6. Oxygen

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**6: Oxygen.**

I elbow my way through the crowd after breakfast, trying to stay close to Ginny, Neville and the rest of our Gryffindor year. They are less than three metres ahead, but it is so hard to keep up while I am constantly being pushed back. 'I'll—' I call, but stop when I know I have no chance of being heard. I am being pushed and shoved by the excited student body, so, somewhat angrily, I retreat to stand under the tall, wooden benches and wait for the crowd to pass. I will fight them later; Ginny will save me a spot at the front.

Breakfast was strange. The team is obviously feeling the pressure to keep the Cup, and not only earning pointed looks from years one to seven, but beyond as well; Oliver was reciting to Ron last minute reminders and secret tricks of the Keeper trade. I had been listening to his deep voice, something, I am ashamed to say, is _very_ definitive in my mind, and shook my head when he advised, 'Loop the hoops and, when they're close enough, loop the Slytherins too. Give 'em a good shove if Hooch isn't watching. A little kick won't hurt 'em either…' Ron did not regain any colour to his grey face.

But more than his voice was his ogling. When he was not living through Ron or Harry or Angelina, Oliver's stare was fixated upon me, absolutely shameless from across the table. I wondered just _what_ it was Fred and George said to make him so confident. I refused to stop eating and reveal my heated cheeks, not even when Angelina came and hurried them all off, her voice stunted as if she were nauseous. 'Let's check out conditions and change.' Oliver brushed past, closer than necessary, and I definitely felt the teasing tug left on my red and gold scarf. All I saw was porridge. I encouraged Ron, though I did not feel very hearty, and loyally warned Harry about the horrible badges, giving them each a kiss on their cheeks and my wish for their good luck.

Then I sat to finish my porridge and decided that maybe I should not be sitting at the Gryffindor table, wearing Gryffindor colours with Gryffindor friends, eating Gryffindor food. I do not feel brave. Not brave at all.

I can see the front of the changing rooms from here. Harry and Ron are no where in sight and I am not sure that is a good thing. Ron has me worried because he is so backwards today. It must be chaos in there. I would bet five whole galleons that Angelina is trying, borderline hysterical, to reassure them that the Cup is still within Gryffindor's grasp in her pre-match talk. I briefly wonder where Oliver is before I see him running back and forth behind the change rooms. I stare. He slows to a stop when he sees me and lifts his hand in a wave and I wave back, praying he thinks my blush is the cold, wondering why he is so friendly. We smile at each other, stupidly until he shakes his head and disappears. I stare at the spot where he was, simultaneously near and far.

'Hermione,' says a dreamy voice behind me. I turn and almost yelp with fright. Luna is wearing her terrifyingly realistic, life sized lion-head hat, which I am instantly hoping will _not_ roar any time soon, smiling serenely and looking off into the distance. I had momentarily forgotten about the fearsome headgear.

After recovering, I greet her properly, 'Hello Luna. Are you sitting with Ravenclaw?'

'No,' she laughs softly shaking her head, along with her trademark radish earrings, despite the large mass on its top. 'I'm sitting with _you_.'

'Oh.' I notice the crowd has thinned, 'Shall we go?' Luna turns silvery grey eyes to me and her hair sways from under the hat in the wind. I take that as her form of assent.

We walk in silence. Since Harry introduced us to the Ravenclaw, observing has been my main affection toward her because her quiet spontaneity forces me to be constantly wary whenever she is near. Despite this, I increasingly find I do not mind her at all. 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,' Luna whispers constantly under her breath. I have given up glancing at her by now, used to her philosophical sighs and odd comments.

At the top of the stairs, just before we are about to brave the short throng of people to the group, Luna stops and places her hand in front of her. 'Be brave,' she says quietly. I blink. 'Be like the lion.' I do not jump when her lion gives a very loud roar. I do not move my head or eyes when Luna calls out, 'Hello Ginerva!' and drifts away through the astounded, ogling and snickering crowd that has parted for her like the Red Sea to Moses.

Bloody hell, I think, astounded. Luna 'Loony' Lovegood has just given me advice, possibly relationship advice. I am shocked. I am troubled. I do not move.

The game has begun. Lee's matchmaking resonates across the length and breadth of the Pitch. I can hear the screams, jeers and rhythmic 'Weasley is Our King' verses chorusing from the Slytherin supporters. Gryffindor is deafening, but it is dulled because I am not listening. I had followed Luna and am currently standing between her and Ginny. I am trying to watch five boys at once.

Ron glides to the goalposts; he is whiter than a sheet while Harry immediately starts lapping the Pitch widely, glancing at Ron every so often. The only confident players for Gryffindor on the Pitch are the twins. Fred and George have split up and are currently swinging their beater bats wildly above their heads and bellowing excitedly. Directly across the Pitch in the parents and teachers section of the stands sits the last boy-of-my-heart. Oliver is cheering next to Professor McGonagall, who is trying to threaten Lee maliciously enough so that he will stop asking Angelina for dates, and is leaning forward with eyes alight. Even from this distance, such a very long way away, I can tell that he is clenching his fists and screaming orders as if this were his team. Is that intuition, or is it because suddenly I cannot take my eyes off him? Not so suddenly, his gaze has descended upon me, and he grins for a split second before turning back, shooting red and gold sparks from his wand and hollering.

These quick glances make me beam uncontrollably.

Ginny, noticing my travelling sights, winks and grins roguishly. As I try not to blush, it strikes me, yet again that she is very much like her twin brothers. Even their build is the same, their mischievous personalities, and as a result, they are incredibly close. My mouth falls open as Draco Malfoy's silver and green blur whizzes past, and I quickly snap it shut, narrow my eyes.

The game is going terribly in more ways than one. The singing from the Slytherins is making my blood boil with each repetition of the horrible verses. While Ron looks like he is about to pass out, Harry and Malfoy battle it out neck and neck at high speeds and heights, merely feet from the ground at the Slytherin end. The crowd holds its breath as they spin together, left, right, back…

And they cheer as Harry holds up the Snitch, bellowing in triumph at a successful Gryffindor win…

And they scream as Harry is hit directly into his back by Crabbe, falling forward over his broom and colliding with the ground with the Snitch clutched in his hand. My shriek of 'Harry!' and Ginny's cry of 'Foul!' and Neville's furious, incoherent words of indignation are lost in Luna's lion's roar.

I react immediately, disregarding the cold, bitter wind stinging my cheeks and the way my scarf keeps getting caught on the railings and tops of people's heads; I know I lost the scarlet rosette long ago. I can hear thundering footfalls directly behind me; we are the supporting quartet.

But we slow at the foot of the bleacher's stairs, because Angelina is shouting, 'We won, Harry, we won!' and the team is touching down one by one with their fists pumping the air. Looking round at each other and smiling in our individual ways and we speed eagerly forward again to congratulate them all. We are the first of the Gryffindor supporters spilling over the seats toward the Pitch.

Abruptly Harry is restraining George and Fred is trying to fight off all three Chasers. Malfoy is laughing and backing away at the same time like the snooty coward he is. 'Or perhaps you can remember what _your_ mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it—'

The boys are gone and Malfoy is hidden behind their fuming bodies. Fred is yelling louder than ever, the girls screaming for them to stop, crying, 'Harry! HARRY! George! _NO!_' Luna initiates her Lion to roar at full ferociousness and Neville runs as fast as he can toward Madame Hooch, at least one hundred metres away.

I feel him before I see him, and as he rushes past, I grab his shoulders and try to hold him back. 'Oliver! No!' I plead. His head swings around to stare at me, to find reason.

'The git insulted my friends!' Oliver retorts his eyes dark and flashing dangerously.

'And he's paying for it!' I yell back over the chaos. Oliver glances around, taking everything in, and I feel him tense up. I notice Ginny is trying to edge closer to pull George off. Oliver starts forward again, but I dig my heels into the dirt and grasp onto the back of his cloak. 'You could lose your _job_, Oliver!'

'But I'm a Gryffindor!' He is trying to shake me off, pushing me away with his hands. In a last ditch effort, I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling the texture of rippling muscles and broad shoulders and jump onto his back, like Ginny used to do to the twins, taking them by surprise and laughing. But I am not laughing. I am yelling unfinished words to try to reason with him and I lock my arms around his neck, hoping he will not choke. Oliver instinctively reaches underneath my thighs and leans back to stop overbalancing, and I am all too aware that I am wearing a skirt with stockings rather than pants. 'What are you _doing_?' he yells.

I lean around and talk into his ear. 'Stopping you from making a big mistake,' I answer heatedly. 'They're students, so they are protected. But if _you_ beat him up, his slimy father will not only have you apprehended for _assault_, but you'll lose your job, taint your name and only Merlin knows what else the cockroach could do.'

The fight is over. Harry and George are marching from the Pitch, leaving a whimpering Malfoy curled up on the ground with a bloody nose and multiple bruises, and a disgruntled team in their wake. Neville is panting in the background, Luna nowhere in sight, along with Ron. Ginny is staring at her brother, reaching out a hand to touch Fred's shoulder but he jerks away. Oliver lets me down with a great, heaving sigh and brushes himself off while I straighten my skirt, worrying if Harry and George will be okay, burning from the physical contact. I quiver all over, tremble and tingle. 'At least we won…' Oliver murmurs, more to himself. 'No more mistakes. No more. We'll talk later.'

I do not know what to do as he rushes off. All I want is to look after my boys.

_-x-x-x-_

I walk the corridors as if a ghost. I currently haunt the steps of the ground floor, near the Entrance Hall, after I made my way from the Pitch to the common room and from there to aimless destinations around the castle. I walk because I cannot seem to stay in one place and bear not knowing and watch no one else cope either. Fred is beside himself. Pacing in front of the fire, he had thrown the coffee table over repeatedly until Ginny pushed him on the couch and sat on him. Fred put his head on her shoulder and listened to her sweet, comforting, understanding words that only she could give to him and I left them to their sibling connection, simply placing a kiss on the top of Fred's hair and telling him it will work out somehow. Somehow. Somehow seems better than maybe.

It has been less than an hour since the match was won and no one is thinking about celebrating. My promise, though fulfilled, seems invalidated. There are no happy, joyous twins for me to accompany on a mission to smuggle food from the kitchens, neither happy, joyous fans to eat it. I think I should do something worthwhile. I may go tell Jaala that we will not be needing the multitude of cakes that he has undoubtedly prepared for the night, or go find Ron, or…

I need to think. I am thinking… but somehow I am not; thoughts are only a series of questions without answers. We'll talk, he said. What Oliver? Why would we talk? Are you angry? Are you grateful? Are we talking about Quidditch, about you, or me, or us? Is there even an 'us'? I wouldn't mind if there was…

I find myself crunching through the frosty grass and heading out to the Pitch again. The seats are empty, everyone had left long ago – there are no prints or signs of their comings and goings – and the flags look almost dismissal, disappointed. Their colours are dull, and it is not because of the dreary weather either.

Oliver is on the Pitch, pacing back and forth, like Fred was, and running his hands though his hair. He is stressed about the match, about the outcome or about something else. Maybe he is stressing about stress itself. I stop at the front gate, watching with my hair and scarf flying in the wind, gloved hands in the pockets of my cloak, keeping it close to my body. I am very cold all on my lonesome.

After he turns around for the third time, he lifts his head and stares at me, as if he cannot quite believe I am here. I begin to get uncomfortable and shift my feet, calling, 'Hi! Are you all right?'

He shakes his head. 'Yeah,' he calls. 'It's the team you should worry about.'

Despite the sobriety of the situation, I crack a small smile and raise my hands still gloved in my pockets in disbelief. 'You're as much a part of this team as they are.'

He walks forward again, leaving his broom on the frost. I shiver. From the cold, I tell myself. You're a fool who just let in a blast of cold air.

'Angelina was complaining about some boxes that needed to be moved from the stands to the changing rooms. You want to help me?' I know what he is really saying: _We need to talk and I need to calm down. Distract me._

'Of course,' I agree, and I almost whisper. He is close to me, less than two feet away. Suddenly I am not very cold. I want to reach out to touch him, can barely restrain myself from the action of comfort or selfish wants, but I hold back because romance is not what we need.

He nods. 'They're underneath, in some nooks. It's about three hundred metres between.'

'I'll manage.' We walk in silence. I notice he smells faintly of sweat, as if he been sprinting back and forth rather than pacing. His hands are in his pockets. I know that gesture well. I am doing it right now. It is a gesture humans do when they do not know what else should be done. Confusion because of the situation and these are about as confusing as they come.

The boxes are medium size, made out of wood. 'What's in them?' I ask, trying to peer through the cracks because they are tightly sealed. Not nails; must be magic.

'Not sure. She doesn't like them much.' Oliver hoists two into his arms, and I manage one. I could levitate three, as could he, but I think we need something solid to do, to take our minds off the pending punishment.

But Oliver is the first to bring it up. 'I hope McGonagall goes easy on them. Wish I could smooth-talk her into something that won't jeopardise their Quidditch.'

'It's Professor Umbridge we have to worry about,' I say. 'She always sticks her nose in these things. If she does…' I trail off, unable to voice how Umbridge could ruin their lives with but a word.

'That bad, huh?'

'Yes,' I say, squaring my shoulders again, 'and Professor McGonagall may like Quidditch, but she's strict. Surely you must know that.'

'I do. She's a stickler for rules; like you too, huh, being a wicked Prefect and all?'

I heave the box up further. It is heavier than I thought. 'I'm very much a Prefect,' I say slowly, 'but sometimes Harry gets into trouble and, well, I've been breaking them since my first year. Only some. Sometimes they're not right.'

'Well I'm glad you knew the rules… back then. I need to keep my job. Lost my head.'

An apology: I smile my sincerity. 'It's understandable. Friendship and bravery are the most important.' My cheeks flood when he looks at me. I duck my head, ashamed of my philosophical musings, my jealousy at the ease of others. I catch sight of his jaw clenching and try to distract him, asking, 'Are you going to come to the common room when we find out what will happen?'

'No… I'd – er – rather find out from the grapevine.' My trembling slows. He wants to keep his explosion to himself. 'Are you?'

I nod. 'Yes, as are Fred and Ginny. I don't know about Ron though. No one's seen him.'

'Disappeared, has he?'

'I gather he walked off.' I look up, glad to see his gaze looking ahead. I would not be able to bear the weight of it. 'Does he play well, do you think?'

Oliver does not answer for a long time, enough that I wonder if he heard me. 'He needs to work on it,' he concludes finally.

'What about Harry?'

His voice holds hints of enthusiasm. 'Harry was brilliant, _is_ brilliant. He's one of the best Seekers I've ever seen, up in league with Charlie Weasley even. Let's hope he doesn't go chasing after dragons too, huh?'

'The legendary Charlie.' I say, not at all bitter, 'and the boy-who-lived Harry Potter. Seekers born and bred. And the legendary Keeper, Oliver Wood. Never lets the Quaffle in!'

Oliver cracks a grin and some of the tension leaves his face, 'And the best friend of Harry Potter, top-of-her-class, pretty bookworm Hermione Granger. She who can do anything.'

'Oh,' I breathe, my heart skipping. Pretty? 'Right.'

But he starts at my dejected tone, understanding that there is something behind it. I try to hide my cowardly, mostly low self-esteem behind a shrug but he persists. 'What's that mean?'

'Well… the fact is, I can't do anything, and I don't carry any weight in the world.'

'But you're Hermione Granger. You're—'

'Harry Potter's friend, the bookworm.' I shrug my shoulders, jostling the box. 'A name means nothing: it's barely a title. There are a lot of things that I can't do: dance, sing. I have no musical talent whatsoever. I'm horrible at anything illogical: jokes, pranks, general mayhem, no matter what the twins try to teach me.'

I bite my lip, feeling his gaze locked on me. 'Sports, running, flying. I can't fly. Well… I can, shakily. It's rather playing dangerous games of Quidditch and heights than anything…' The words are just tumbling out unheeded. The pressure has mounted too high and I fall to hurried mumbles. 'Can't fight. Physically, I mean,' I continue. 'No kicking, no punching, flips, defence. I'd be minced if anyone tried to hurt me in close combat. Can't cook anything more complicated than pasta…'

'But—'

'No,' I interrupt him again, raise my head and meet his concerned brown eyes for a split second before I drop my gaze, afraid of what I see and what I know he could with time. We have both stopped. I heave the box up further and talk softly whilst running my eyes along its grains. 'Being able to memorise useless facts about Goblin wars and wave a wand is hardly notable compared to what Harry does, the famous wizards in _Hogwarts: A History _and…' I peek up at him, 'and those who inspire others wizards with a celebratory status.'

My legs act of their own accord and rush to walk faster. I refuse to acknowledge that it is fleeing my confessions and the bitterness that seems to plague me. Though Oliver follows me, he seems speechless compared to his earlier state, asking, 'Back there, after the game? What'd you think of that?'

I instantly think of jumping on his back, the slip-slide of his warmth against mine, the illicit thoughts that passed near subconsciously. But it is the fighting of a different sort he talks of. I shrug. 'I understand why they did it, not why it was necessary.'

As we place the boxes just inside the room, ready to be used, he asks, 'And now?'

I turn to walk back with my hands deep in my pockets, feel the photo of the past skim my fingers, my steps slowing with thought. 'I guess… I just don't want to be left behind.'

Oliver smiles sadly. 'No one does.' He powers on ahead.

I nod and continue on, falling into step slightly behind him. His hands are in his pockets, like mine, and he glances over his shoulder at my pensive face. 'Come on,' he says. 'Let's get to it.'

I smile in relief. That is something in common; tact over emotion. Get the job done! Don't start something and leave it unfinished!

I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. Again. And I suppose it worsens this fact that my eyes have strayed from his broad shoulders down to his ankles and everything in-between. I instantly scold myself, blushing strongly, horrified that _this_ is what I have been reduced to: jumping from melancholy to hypocrisy. I want to grow closer to him. I want to know about him, so my feet stop and I ask, 'What's it like to fly, without fear?'

He turns around. 'Like love. Like you can't live without it.'

It is a mistake to watch the ground as I continue on with our task. I am alone in this activity. I hit him square in the chest and all I can think is, _Hermione, you are _really_ thick_.

'Hullo there,' he says. I tremble because his voice is suddenly deeper than the Black Lake and the mood has changed drastically. Another jump: I turn to lust. My heart is thunder and my mouth a desert. I can smell him: sporty cologne, just how I always thought, and the sweat that I swear must be constant in such a Quidditch fanatic. The air is warm from our bodies. He is very, very close. Too close.

'Hi,' I breathe. I cannot look at him, cannot raise my head. But then there is a lazy tug on my hair so I know I missed his hand reaching up to grab the loose strand. My beanie has failed to protect me. Another tug and an urge to which I do not want to comply to but for some reason I do. I look up.

It is the same look. It is like my dream. I walk backwards and Oliver follows. I stumble, he lunges. He has not torn his gaze away and nor have I. We pass the walls of the Pitch, we pass the stairs leading toward the changing room and I know what is coming and but still I keep walking and still he follows.

My back hits the wall. My body is jarred; I swallow and fail to breathe enough air. Then his lips crash on mine and I start, kiss him back fiercely before he pulls away. It lasted a mere second, but I have already fallen from time. I am light headed from escaping the world of only us. His hands are braced on the wall, either side of my head. Why do I like it?

My mouth is open and his eyes are too dark and he is too close and his words too low with mine too high. His fingers creep onto my neck, splay against the core of my throat and skim around to cup the back of my head. They are icy and elicit the most sensual feeling I remember to date.

I swallow. 'We should get back—'

'Because of George and Harry?'

'Yes,' I lie, 'because they need us.'

'I thought you were honest.'

_Caught._ I shudder. Anticipation races through me.

He leans forward, his chin brushing against my cheek. 'I heard you, Hermione,' he whispers in my ear. 'Heard you say it.' His lips graze my lobe and my eyes flicker closed of their own accord, my hands moving to the collar of his warm jumper. Without thinking, I shudder again and the desire is reflected in the hitches that part my lips. He presses his mouth to mine and his movements are raw and expert and send my senses into overdrive.

I quiver and my lips quiver and I kiss him back hard before my hands push him away. He stares into my eyes and his are the colour of woodland. I cannot help but grasp his collar as he, confused, leans in again and I lightly brush my lips with his, begging him to stay and hoping he will leave, because too much of him has flown into my senses. It is an overload that my arsenal of inexperienced fumbling cannot take. _What are you doing?_ a voice yells in my head. _He heard you talk to Harry, he heard you confess. He knows!_

'And I…' he stops and swallows. I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down, slowly track my wide eyes over his strong chin. My blood is on fire and I know it is the desire for more contact coursing through me, making me blush. His hand is burning my neck. It scares me to my core. My brain will not turn off and I become fearful with worry and what-ifs. I do not wish to get this wrong. I do not wish to disappoint him. The torture sets in my stomach.

'Oliver?'

'I want—'

'Wait.' The trembling sneaks into my words. 'I... I can't.'

He stares at me, his hand moving from my neck to my shoulder. 'You kissed me back,' he says, but his uncertainty makes it sound like a question.

What can I say? I'm not as brave as you? I don't deserve you? I love you, but I'm not ready? 'I'm afraid,' I say instead.

He frowns. 'Of me?'

'Of this. This... I'm not brave enough.'

He stays silent, stroking my hair. I let him because it feels like the last time. He places a tendril behind my ear and meets my drooping gaze. 'I came back for you, you know?'

I squeeze my eyes shut. 'You don't know how long I've waited to hear that,' I whisper. 'You don't know.'

'So?'

'I'm scared. What if...? I need to think about this.' Oliver's face falls and I choke back a sob. 'I'm sorry. I need to think.'

Now he is angry and rejected. Another jump. A cloud passes over the winter sun that transfigures his face from the royalty of gold to blue-grey. His hands drops, he steps back and I am lost.

'Go on,' he says quietly. I reach out for him but he shifts away an looks at the ground. 'I think I can take the rest.' Oliver spins around, jogs down the steps and over the icy ground. I watch.

It feels like goodbye.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	7. Renewal

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**7: Renewal**

Ginny finds me in the library half an hour later staring at the photo of my love. I quickly hide it. She asks what is wrong and I will not tell her, but I think she knows, so I know it does not matter. Then her eyes light up and she cries, 'Ron's back. Guess who he was with, go on: guess.'

I simply shrug.

'Luna! I found Ron with Luna!'

Another couple. Harry and Cho. Ron and Luna. Hermione and no one. I know she is trying to cheer me up so I smile and listen to her gossip of how she found Ron in the change rooms with his hands lost in Luna's light, long hair. She left them together alone, she says, a twinkle in her eye. We leave for the common room.

I look out at the distant Quidditch Pitch as we walk down one of the silent, deserted corridors before the staircases. The window frames a dot that is someone flying around the Pitch in fast figure-eights that would have them cold to their bones. I feel a pang of guilt, that same pang like a rock in my stomach, the air rushing passed as I break away from Ginny, leaving her hollering my name, and run down, down, down toward the base of the castle. Running close to the Whomping Willow, I stop to look up. I watch his loops. I know he is angry and trying to channel it the way men do. He knows, he returns my affections. I know I should not have been scared. I know I should have been brave. I know my actions were entirely irrational.

He does not see me.

I slide down to kneel on the wet ground with my legs bent at odd angles and beginning to prickle. I remember his breath on my cheek, the warmth he brought. I remember the brazen whisper and my warm, sudden desire from his kiss. I feel so frozen now. I feel like the ice on the ground has broken into my bloodstream and turned me cold. I tug my hair, once, twice, a desperate third, but it is still not the same.

Only when my head falls into my hands do I cry.

_-x-x-x-_

Fred comes for me later. He had started searching when Ginny came back without me, her mission of retrieval failed. He does not sit down beside me or allow me to hide my tears. He offers his hand until I take it and immediately pulls me up and then my frozen body is hauled into his arms like a child and I cry onto his shoulder while he carries me back to the castle and through shadowy corridors.

'I feel like I'm in Third Year,' I sob. 'What's wrong with me?'

'Nothing wrong with you, nothing at all. We'll make a plan, Hermione,' he promises, trying to rub warmth into my arms. 'Don't worry. We'll set off some Wheezebangs in your honour.'

I whisper, 'I'm sorry, Fred.'

'I'm George.'

'Oh.'

He jostles me. 'I'm Fred! Really, Hermione!' and I have to laugh because they play this trick so much and it never gets old. He grins too, but it fades when he says, 'George isn't back yet, neither is Harry.'

'Are you worried?' I ask, worried about him as well. I breathe in. He still smells of sweat, and then I ache.

'Yeah. But it's McGonagall, innit?' he says as we reach the second floor. 'She's all right.'

'Are you sure?'

'No.'

I sigh. 'Fred, let me down. Please.'

'I can still carry you.'

'I'm brave enough to walk.'

Fred nods and lets me drop. My scarf trails across the ground as we trudge up the stairs.

I remember my earlier thoughts. No one can bear not knowing. For some, it is knowing they cannot bear.

_-x-x-x-_

Much later in the evening, after Harry and Ron have disappeared to bed, I sit by the fire, a blanket on my legs with parchment on my knee and my quill in my hand. It remains blank and empty, like a white, featureless mask of failure. The Snitch Harry caught is still flying around the room and I try to follow it with my eyes but keep losing sight.

I hear a creak and look to see the door to the boys' dormitory opens and the twins shuffle in. I do not know what to say, so I say nothing as they lift up the blanket, put it over them equally as much as it will go and slump down on either side of me. Their heavy heads fall onto my shoulders and I close my eyes in anguish when their breathing becomes shaky. I hold their hands in mine and rub them with the back of my thumb while their tears drip onto my neck. Their grasp is the desperation of men who are drowning. Nothing has ever frightened me so much as seeing, feeling and hearing the Weasley twins cry and not laugh or smile or joke. Their sobbing pulls at my heartstrings and suddenly my own breath is shaky and hot tears prick at my eyes until I am crying too. Our shoulders shake together and mine heave with them in disjointed symphony. Our eyes are squeezed shut in a vain attempt to stop crying so the others might too and the parchment is soaked with tears when I begin to whisper, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Fred and George.'

Fred nods while George squeezes my hand and both wrap their arm around my midsection in a hug that I should be giving them, so I cry harder still because I feel so awfully useless. They sit up and reach to wipe away my tears while I do the same to them.

I blearily stare at two boys in my arms with me in their arms too. 'What are we doing?'

'We're laughing on the wrong side of our face.'

Then they both stop and begin to laugh the laughter on the right side of their faces, though it seems somehow an in-between sort of side. Their laugh is different to what it usually is: much more broken and quiet, and it is a laugh that makes me question how well they are handling this.

Their bodies are warm and their laughing is contagious so soon I am smiling too and hugging them both as they hug me. Then George sits up and gets out his wand, waving and whispering a spell until, on the coffee table, appear three bottles of Butterbeer and three small chocolate cakes.

'You're paying us back with your intellectual services,' Fred whispers, not quite grinning.

'We wanted to go to Honeydukes like we usually do, but flying's too obvious, the passage too cold.' George's smile slips slowly from his face. 'Honeydukes' closed early, anyway. They like to drink in the cellar.'

I reach to place my hands on their trembling shoulders and their expressions brighten too quickly for me to believe their glee is genuine. Fred shrugs. 'Smuggled these from Jaala at the Kitchens, right from under Umbridge's nose early this morning. They're his best and a part of our daring feat in preparation for your little bargain.'

I flick my eyes to each brother, frowning as the trademark grins fade again. 'What are we celebrating?'

'Well it's definitely not the ban, is it?' mutters Fred, nodding to George's cut lip. Dark falls over their expressions, their glowering back. I squeeze their shoulders. I know their impassive expressions to be masks, like the parchment now stained with grief. 'Quidditch is our attachment here… and she took that away…' Fred heaves a shuddering breath and I reach around with my arm along the back of the couch in a half hug to stroke the hair on the back of his neck, running my fingertips through it, attempting to offer understanding and comfort. Fred leans his face into the crook of my neck.

'I wanted to hurt her,' I say. I turn slightly and see nothing revealed on George's face. I hold his hand, letting him hold it firmly. 'We, Harry, Ron and I, went to Hagrid's cabin and she came, arriving on his doorstep like she thinks she's royalty. He doesn't understand how easily she can remove him from the school. But more than that, neither the two of you nor Harry deserved that ban. And for life!' I spit, bitterness fuelling rage that bubbles within me. Fred lifts his head and looks into my burning eyes.

'It's all right, Hermione. We never wanted to play Quidditch… for life, I mean, did we George?' George shakes his head and leans against my shoulder. 'No. We're bloody angry that she's cut our time short, and Harry's, but now we can focus on setting up our business and the DA.'

'And we still won, right? Even if it doesn't feel like it,' George says as Fred moves and reaches over to the drinks to hand the bottles around. We shuffle under the blanket, sitting close and upright. 'That's reason enough, I think.'

I take the lid off mine and tell them, 'There's something you've forgotten.'

'What's that?'

'You're not in it alone. All of us are behind you, the team, your entire family, Lee, Oliver, the whole of Gryffindor even.' I reach over and kiss both of their salty cheeks, holding a hand on their shoulders for support, their warmth flowing into my skin. I smile. 'Me. You can be brave enough to take it yourselves, but you don't have to.'

For the first time this night, their grins are true. 'We'll drink to that,' George says.

I smile broadly and, fighting the lumps in our throats, we hold up our bottles by their necks. 'Cheers, Hermione,' they chorus.

'Cheers, Fred and George,' I say. 'Here's to you.'

_ -x-x-x-_

The photo – the reminder of the time my love was first born – is under my pillow and I dream.

It is night, much like tonight. I hold my wand aloft and my Prefect badge flashes in its light: this is me, patrolling the doors to the outside. Portraits snore and groan and my feet are tired from the excitement of the day, the running, the heartache, the slow burn of desire and regret.

Then a side door creaks as it opens and I whirl on the intruder, slamming into them, hearing a muffled, 'Hi, sorry.' I almost dock the points automatically before I stop and realise that points lost will be because of idiocy rather than a student. Oliver is not a student.

I am too young to feel such excitement pooling in my belly, but I do and it feels illicit. He looks like he only just came in from the snow. Frozen in time, his cloak is scattered with flakes, his lips are blue and his eyes clouded. His skin is both pale and flushed. He blinks and the world resumes.

'Hermione,' he breathes, stepping back outside. I take a step back too, staring at him from the shadows. His brown eyes are now clear and too alert for this time of night.

'Oliver.'

'I'm sorry,' we say together, pause uncertainly and laugh. I lower my wand and our faces disappear so I am talking to only sound and hiding my quickly flushing face. 'You go first.' Both of our voices are hushed. They tremble at the same rate.

Oliver reaches forward and places a hand on the door frame, near to my shoulder. 'About before…'

'It's my fault,' I say, ducking my head so I will not look at his blue mouth. 'I should have… Do you want to come inside, already?' I reach over and grasp his hand, hissing at the touch. 'God, you're as cold as ice.'

He allows me to tug him further into the castle, his face a mess of expression that I cannot begin to comprehend. His hand is still cold and I unconsciously rub my finger over it until he interlaces our fingers and I realise with a start what I was doing. We trudge on.

'Where are we going?' he asks softly.

I watch the bobbing wand light. 'My shift's over. Somewhere where it's warmer.'

'My room,' he says. I stop and he barrels into me, then curses under his breath. 'That sounded better in my head.'

'It's okay.'

He shakes his head and lights his own wand. 'You're something else,' is all he says and tugs me with him, our hands still joined.

We close doors quietly and walk up flights of changing staircases. The portraits we pass groan in their sleep in the wand light and I can hardly care less. He is holding my hand. Now his hand is warm in mine, calloused fingers locked with my ink-stained pointers and every slipping movement sending tingles through my nerves.

I almost bump into him when we arrive at a portrait I have passed before, somewhere on the fifth floor, of an elderly wizard dressed in burgundy and wearing horn-rimmed glasses reading a thin book. The wizard looks up and says, 'No visitors, boy, especially this late at night.'

'Well, goodbye,' I mumble and I start to turn away when he refuses to drop my hand and pulls me back. I almost tread on his feet in my surprised stumble. 'What is it?'

Oliver fishes through his coat pockets one-handed until he produces a little knitted house-elf hat I had made a few days ago. 'I think you might have dropped this. Kind of cute,' he says, grinning.

I blush to the roots of my hair, smiling all the same, and snatch it back, holding it in my hand for a lucky charm. 'Thanks.'

'Breakfast tomorrow?' he asks suddenly. He pauses, frowns and looks at me again. 'With me, I mean… if you want.'

I smile a giddy, stupid grin that blooms across my face in an instant at his words. 'Yes. I would like that.' He smiles too and taps his chin, pointing at me.

'You're something else,' he says again. He rubs his thumb across my skin.

I swallow and stare at him through my lashes, my intellectualism screaming about the hypocrisy of the instinctive action. 'Is that a good thing?'

'You've got no idea.'

'I don't.' He steps closer and my voice drops to a whisper. 'I really don't.'

'Trust me. It's a good thing.' God, he's so close I can hardly think straight. 'Bloody fantastic.'

He kisses me softly on the cheek, a slight graze from stubble scratching my blushing skin. I close my eyes and love how he lingers and open them when he lets go of my hand to find him disappearing. Before the portrait closes he turns, his face troubled and earnest. 'I'll be there,' he promises.

I nod. My cheek is burning and I watch him from cloud nine. 'And I'll be waiting.'

Then in the dark I decide I am finished thinking on the one thought that flies through my head:

Our love is reborn.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	8. Burning on a Pyre

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**8: Burning on a Pyre**

When I woke up I was clutching the woollen hat and realised it was not a dream. I had danced on my bed in the dark and could not wash the smile off my face no matter how hard I tried.

But now that I am here, much too early, standing at the wide-open mouth of the Entrance Hall, I feel the churning of my gut and quake in my shoes, clutching my book bag for support. It takes me five minutes to stop worrying about how much I swing my arms or how stupid it was to wear nice clothes on a winter Sunday and peek around the corner. He is not there.

I breathe deep and sit at the table. I fidget. I never fidget. I pull out my Transfiguration text and try to read but take nothing in. Gloomy, barely awake students stumble in and stumble out and I am still sitting at the table, staring up at the sky. It is snowing, hard.

I can feel a pair of eyes on me and look up. Dumbledore, staring with his blue eyes enigmatic, nods to me and shakes his head and the smile that had been shadowing my face all morning turns into a frown. I bite my lip and look to my tightly clasped hands.

What if?

At half-eight the sun has fully risen behind the dark sky and I have been sitting at the table for one and a half hours without taking a bite, my lost mind turning hazy. Late risers stumble through the doors to take the last breakfast offerings, including Harry and Ron. They take one look at my fallen countenance and that is all I give them before I shoot up from my seat and tell them I am going to Hagrid's.

'Do your homework,' I snap as I pass, throwing a glance over my shoulder and catching my eye on Dumbledore, still watching me. His eyes are apologetic and it helps. There must be an explanation, I tell myself. There must.

Later, I plough through the snow to Hagrid's hut, bundled in all of my winter clothes and still shivering with the chill from the cold and the small breeze that brings with it a sense of foreboding. The ominous gust reminds me that Crookshanks kept jumping onto the bathroom bench when I was trying to tame my unruly bed-head hair. He was yowling and I had pet him and he did not stop, as if a warning of danger. He has always been my protector and who am I to doubt a kneazle? I had disregarded him as jealous, but now I am not so sure. Doubts spin in my mind.

Resolutely, I force my thoughts to why I am here: to save Hagrid from his ignorance. I lift my hand and knock as hard as I can on the frosty door with my gloved hand. They are so cold that every time my hand hits the wood, the force travels through the entirety of my stiff body and curls my frozen toes from the pain. But knock I must and knock I do.

I am awarded with silence. I knock until I can knock no more, scowl and sit down to read.

Soon I am so frozen my fingers can hardly unwrap themselves from clutching the covers to turn the page and I get up to walk but then the book is to heavy and I am sloshing around in snow sludge. Subconsciously, I know I want to be cold, as if for some sort of punishment. My school shoes are wet and clouds of white are my breath. My teeth chatter, my cheeks lose their rosy red with cold. I am blending into the snow.

Then I pull my wand from my cloak pocket and cast a warming charm with practiced ease over me. I am left with nothing but dread. I left the Hall with this feeling of dread. I sit down, shut my eyes and rub my forehead. My stomach is churning terribly and I cannot seem to stop frowning.

Something is wrong. Something is amiss.

I begin to read again, hoping to find a low-danger Beast more interesting than a Flobberworm in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Clabberts seem to hold the most promise as they detect danger but are not dangerous themselves – maybe they will sense Umbridge and allow us some warning. Maybe they will tell me what is happening to me. As I sigh and begin to prepare an argument about the benefits of such a Beast in the lesson, I have the strange feeling of being watched. I frown. I look up.

I turn my head too late.

My shriek is shrill and angry and I drop my book to the snow when icy snow sloshes down my back. Cold air whooshes through my bones and I jump around in the sludge, splashing my legs with water and clawing at my back. Fred and George howl with unrestrained laughter in the background, boisterous and rumbling from their chests in true amusement that brings tears to their eyes.

'Not now,' I snap. I open my book again, casting a drying charm that sprouts stream from the pages and cover, and begin to read without reading.

They stand silently for a minute, then one asks, 'What's wrong?'

I sigh, still staring at the book, and clutch its pages, biting my lip. 'He didn't come,.'

Their expressions immediately begin to cloud with their glowering, as if last night's news had broken once more. 'Bloody git,' they mumble under their breaths, and there is a subtle note of secret I think I can hear in their tone. Foreboding is in the sudden gust of wind. I do not want to be right.

I cross my arms and shiver, my teeth chattering excessively. 'You know something.'

They sit on either side of me, taking my hands and rubbing at each to warm them. 'You're looking lovely today.'

'Something you've done with your hair?'

I wretch their hands away and stand up to face them. 'Stop trying to distract me. What's going on? What was that look for?' They are silent, only able to glance hopelessly at each other or the snow on their boots rather than me. 'Well?'

'You're not going to like it—'

'Fred—'

'You don't need to know—'

'George—'

'Git's such a broad term—'

Desperately, I pull my wand from my cloak and point it at their stunned, anxious faces. 'Tell me!' I cry, and it is not my murderous glare that does it but the panic and sheer terror underlying its threatening promise. They know I know.

'Wood's gone.'

The words slicing the air are like a knife to my stomach: quick, sharp and painful. They hang, immobile, and drip with my blood. 'When?'

'Way before dawn.'

'Maybe Professor Umbridge—'

'No.'

I shake my head and lower my wand with the force of my trembles. I forget the cold and Hogwarts behind me. My head continues shaking rapidly as if it has a mind of its own. 'I was going to tell him I... Was it me? Did I send him away?

Instantly, the twins shoot up to envelop me in their arms, shaking their heads so the wool balls on the end of their beanies sway with each swing. 'Of course not,' they say.

I push them away again, hugging myself with my arms. 'But—'

'It's not, all right, you didn't. He's an idiot to leave you high and dry like that. Said he's got training, he was in a lot of trouble for something and he really had to go.'

'Well that's—'

'He's _lying_. Angelina told us he was no where near excited or pumped as he is supposed to be: she knew he was telling porkies.'

My hand flies to cover my mouth and I scramble further and further away from them until I begin to trip in the deep snow. I stare at the white ground, breathing short breaths, my whisper one of disbelief. 'What? How—'

'He's a coward who's done a runner.'

I have to avoid their eyes. I know if I look at them I will cry.

'Yeah, and after all the help we gave you too. We've never been wrong before.'

But I am unable to hold in a sob at Fred's words and George slaps his head. They approach me cautiously and he says, 'We'll gladly kill him for you Hermione. Zonko's've got a product that'll work.'

'No!'

'Hermi—'

'I said no!'

We stand, silent.

'Hagrid's here,' I mutter and hide behind my curtain of hair. My nod toward the gamekeeper is curt and diplomatic because I have thrown myself into the safe cocoon of working. If I cannot save myself I will save Hagrid. He waves as he comes out of the Forbidden Forest, his hair caked with snow. The twins stay silent, staring and worried, both reaching for me and protesting when I pull back. I pick up my book and bag and walk away.

The only thing I feel is ice.

_-x-x-x-_

'He really _was_ at a game.'

'That's stupid,' Fred snaps, shaking his head. 'I can't believe you're going to meet him again.'

'He's a git. He is. You just wait.' George stabs his toast with his knife, flicking jam onto his cloak.

I shake my head, tucking loose hairs behind my ears. 'It was a misunderstanding.'

'Tosser.'

'Bloody jock.'

'For the love of— Look, he owled and said there was an emergency. It's a one off.'

The twins shake their heads again and stare glumly at their breakfasts. Harry peers at me across the table. 'I know you believe in second chances, Hermione. I do, too.'

I smile gratefully toward him. 'Thank you, Harry.'

'Just watch out for Ron. You know how he is.'

I can only nod.

_-x-x-x-_

The Three Broomsticks is busy as I sit down in the only available table, off to the side and facing the door. The chair scrape is lost in the chattering crowd.

I pull off my coat and brush my hair away from my face then clasp my hands and stare at the door. I fidget again and the déjà vu sends doubts into my head, reminding me of second chances and empathy that has not faded with the teenage angst that plagues so many. I try not to think of Harry yelling, of the twins' glowering and Ginny's and Ron's arguments. I try not to think of Oliver running to be a Gryffindor and the feel of him being much too close.

He is late. I pull at the three-quarter sleeves of my woollen polo-neck jumper and smooth down the winter skirt with my again shaking hands.

When Madam Rosmerta leaves, an owl flies in the open window and navigates through the crowd to sit at the seat where he should be. I look up and stare at it. My bottom lip begins to tremble because it is the same tawny that came before and this is not good news. My heart beats hard in my chest as he drops the letter from his beak onto the space where a second cup of tea should be.

I close my eyes while I open it, not wanting to see the truth. My tears fall from behind the closed eyes and I bring the letter to my mouth just before I drop the horrible words. My tears hit the parchment that he had touched, that he had wrote in to break my heart and crush my hopes again.

The ink wavers and smears and I cannot bear to touch the letter for more than a second. I fold it back up and hand it back to the bird without a written reply. It rubs its head against my shaking fist before launching into the air and disappearing from sight.

Madam Rosmerta watches me leave and sighs.

_-x-x-x-_

My imagination:

Oliver is coming from the field and filing into the locker room where a tawny owl waits for him with a letter in its beak. He grins to himself and rushes forward to snatch it from it, earning himself a hard bite that makes him swear and shoo the bird away. He opens up the letter and is confused when it is the same that he sent, no words of reply.

But words are not needed. His heart sinks and his hands shake. The boisterous joking behind him fades into obscurity. There are tearstains over _sorry_, a smudge of red lipstick kissing _love_ and a crease across his name.

Oliver sits on the bench and ignores his new friend calling his name. He rubs his hand down his sweaty face and the heat from his aching muscles feels like the weight of her grief. His chance with her is gone for a career.

_Will you meet me again?_

He stares at the words he wrote and hates himself and his choices. He stares at her answer metaphorically screaming from every smear and sees himself set for a lonely future.

_No_. _Goodbye._

_-x-x-x-_

'_Hermione? Hermione!'_

'_What? I didn't mean— Blimey, she's barmy that one, absolutely barmy.'_

'_You bloody git. And we were actually going to call you brother. Don't worry, Harry, we'll get her.'_

'_Right— Ron, come back!'_

'_Git? Git?! You're the gits! He's a git! The git of gits!'_

'_Ron, just leave it, all right?'_

…

'_Hermione? We're sitting down.'_

'_N-No.'_

'_We're here anyway. You can't run from us now.'_

'_Ye—'_

'_No, you can't. We're sitting on your cloak.'_

'_In your hurry, you left your wand too.'_

'_Let me go!''_

'_Hermione, come on.'_

'_Fred, George. No.'_

'_Yes. Now—'_

'—_Let me go!'_

'_No. We're holding you captive on this very small boulder until you cry.'_

'_What?'_

'_You haven't cried since… you know. It's unnatural: girls always do. You're heartbroken.'_

'_Those buffoons back there are just too ignorant to know that you, amazingly, are a girl and that you're upset.'_

'_Harry's catching on though, George. Don't forget him. What's-her-name's constant crying might be an eye opener.'_

'_Cho.'_

'_There we go. Know everything don't you, except this: you have to let it out. Cry – do it, you know you want to.'_

'_But—'_

'_Hey, you, look at us. You can't keep burying yourself in your books like this: you'll be torn apart.'_

'_Your philosophy is foolish and illogical. I'll be fine! I _am_ fine!'_

'_Do you actually expect us to believe that?'_

'_Your eyes must be burning by now.'_

'_Don't talk to me about burning!'_

'_See?'_

'_But... I'm _fine_.'_

'_Fine? Fine. If Wood won't make you sob your heart out, then maybe our piece of news will.'_

'_What is it?'_

'_We're, well, going away.'_

'_A-away?'_

'_Away. You can't tell anyone, but we wanted to see to it you would be okay before we left.'_

'_I'll- Where are you going?'_

'_We can't tell you. You'll find out soon enough.'_

'_W-why?'_

'_Same answer.'_

'_Don't look at us like that.'_

'…_Does Lee know?'_

'_No.'_

'_But… but why tell me?'_

'_Must we repeat…?'_

'_I— I— O-oh. George, Fred! You—'_

'_Good. That's better, that's right, let it out.'_

'_I'm s-sorry.'_

'_Don't worry, no one can see you. And we do so like our shirts wet.'_

'_W-why'd he—?'_

'_He's a git.'_

'_An idiot.'_

'_An absolute moron.'_

'_I—I don't know—'_

'_You don't have to, love. We've had our fair share of relationships, haven't we, George?'_

'_We certainly have, Fred, and if there's one thing in common between them it's that no one ever knows what's going on. It's all a guessing game. You don't know why you care, only that you do.'_

'_But it wasn't… it was… just—'_

'_Was. The past. Just let it out. Shh…'_

'_Let it all out.'_

I wake with a lump in my throat. Once more, it is not the cold that causes me to tremble, nor the shock of warm tears that stream unbidden down my cheeks. My legs are again tangled in the blankets and I claw at them fruitlessly in an effort to escape.

Soon, I stumble blindly down the spiralling staircase and open the door to the common room with my hands shaking and the door creaking. The fire is lit and a small group sit in its warmth with blankets upon blankets wrapped around their shoulders and knees and their bodies close, as if conversing quietly about something secretive with each other. Once more, their heads shoot to me and their eyes plead me to stay.

Harry, Ron, Fred and George are silent, their hands suddenly fisted in the blankets. My plain, bleak shadow falls across the floor and reaches out to them, but I stay back with my tear stained cheeks and wild hair, afraid of my weakness, of how open and willing they are. I am supposed to be strong and independent, I know. Three red heads and one of raven black nod toward me, a call for me to let go.

A sob escapes my lips.

Will I run? Cowards always run.

And I do run.

I step softly, then heavily, then run to collapse into their combined embrace and I am immediately pulled closer. Someone strokes my hair as best they can, someone squeezes my shoulder. It must be the twins who kiss the inside of my wrists. I am lying against someone's chest, drowning my tears in blankets and smelling the scent of males that cannot be described in words. I am letting everything pour out like I have not since the twins' intervention.

I cling to them. They stayed, I remind myself joyously. They are consistent, they are reliable, and now I will never let them go because they are _my _boys, my loves and my life. Most of all, they are _mine_.

My possessions are not all here, though. The fifth, pseudo protector is making me cry. He is missing. Brown hair and woodland eyes are missing.

I cry harder into four boys: four out of five.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	9. Set on Fire

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**9: Set on Fire**

_Three years later…_

The falling water washes away my footsteps and my scarf whips in the wind. My hair has been wrestled underneath my strong, navy beanie and I am thankful I have brought my red winter jacket rather than the school's winter cloak. As an 'Eighth Year', privileges are bestowed upon me because of circumstance and experience that someone my age should not have had to endure. _It was unavoidable_, I had told them. _After all, there was a war._

A war which we won.

Hogwarts, repaired and restored, has played host to the multitude of students wishing for an education to guide them into the bright future that awaits them after Voldemort's downfall. The old castle is teeming with apprentices of wondrous unity and enthusiasm that would make its Founder's proud, the same students which make me proud to be studying alongside them. But such crowds and noise and the pushing and shoving of teenagers make me sick and frantic, if only because it seems so foreign now. I can hardly believe that I stayed sane all those years prior to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Hogsmeade is my escape, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes my destination and Fred and George my friends. While Harry and Ron learn to handle the fumbling raiders and disorganised groups of Dark rebels and Ginny finishes off her sixth and seventh year with her friends and cosmetics, I have too much time on my hands without the necessity of excessive research to save our lives. I feel lonely without my boys to bicker with or to watch over, to boss around, to reprimand for their pranks. So now, I work for two of them.

It is the first Hogsmeade weekend of the winter term and the twins' business is booming and swimming in a sea of customers that they need help to care for. Two jaunty men, so rich they hardly know what to do with the money, running the world's best source of happiness.

My happiness.

_We got this store for you, Hermione. Bless you, you're going to go barmy without those prats to care for, so we'll be there instead, if you'll have us._

The door chimes merrily as I walk in, battling the frosty shop door open against throngs of customers eagerly snatching up products to wreck havoc on their neighbours and siblings. They laugh, yell and talk over one another in their excitement. Boys are examining the Skiving Snackboxes with glee and girls peruse the WonderWitch products and Pygmy Puffs, cooing and squealing their delight. Sounds of bursting excitement and amazed awe assault me like enemies of war from left, right and centre. There is a familiar tightening of my stomach, my arms and elbows are tucked close into me where I can see them and keep them out of the way and I flick my eyes at every movement I detect. It is an impossible amount that makes me swallow and frown in dire distress. Someone touches my side and I step away, but then someone else touches me again. The counter seems too far away, the back room and its mocking curtain even farther.

Not until I see magenta sleeves and scarred, freckled hands which enclose upon mine do I breathe, and only when their beaming faces grace my eyes do I give them a watery smile of my own. They tug me away from the crowd into an isle they somehow know to be deserted and wrap their arms around my shorter frame. I latch onto them as if my life depends on it, both ashamed at my cowardice and grateful that they understand. 'Hullo, Hermione,' they say. I nod into Fred's shoulder, inhale their familiar scent and release their holds. They do not shake or rub their arms, though I know my hold must have hurt, but continue to smile. They present their cheeks to me and I kiss each softly and quickly before we go, catching the beginnings of stubble.

'Fred, you need to shave,' I tell him, noting the label stitched into his work cloak. The curtain covering the back room is soft and reassuring under my fingers.

'Well, I know when I'm not wanted.' He laughs to himself and throws the curtain back to depart, his brother turning towards me.

'Glad to see you, Hermione.' George passes me my work cloak from its hook. 'Maggie's got the day off and Verity's at Diagon Alley so I'm going to join her now that you're here. Fred's staying to work with you since it's booming here too. Christmas season has been so very good to us.' He grins broadly at the mention of the business then it slips from his face into a softer, understanding smile. 'It'll calm down soon, don't worry.'

I remove my coat and put it on the hook with my scarf and gloves. 'Thanks, George. I'll see you next weekend?'

'Count on it,' he assures me and ducks around the corner toward the fireplace. I breathe once more, quickly change push the curtain away before stepping up to the second register.

As I work, I watch Fred working the floor, stacking products every so often, laughing, joking to entertain and charm the customers into wishing that they could stay forever and never have to leave. Since they do, Fred artfully convinces them to buy a souvenir of this memorable journey. I find it hard to believe I ever doubted them, said anything horrid about their business. I was hurt. I was angry. I hated how right they were. My heart is still clenched tight in an arctic fist that has nothing to do with winter or the war.

After two busy hours, the store holds only three men wearing Ministry cloaks, critically examining the different quills before they must finish their lunch break. I lean back against the wall and realise how cold and sore I am from standing in one place for so long. Fred chuckles as I fall into the nearby plush armchair and sigh contently. 'How'd we go?' The bell rings in the background.

'Brilliantly, as always.' I smile up at him. 'Your profits are amazing.'

'And so are—'

But he stops and the most horrible look appears on his face, worse than when he had been banned from Quidditch. It is close to George's expression when Fred was on his deathbed after the war, when there was every chance he might not making it through and George detested everyone who still breathed. The glowering magnifies when Fred turns his whole body towards the door. Curious, I push myself up from the chair, balancing on the arms, to peer over the countertop.

Oliver Wood.

I had dreamed of this meeting often. Every time I sleep or look out a window with my head pounding from overuse, my brain would go to his face and a conversation would start in my head. _Good afternoon, Oliver,_ I would greet. _How is your Quidditch fairing?_ I would stand tall as one who is sure in themselves. I would not blush or stutter or begin to cry in any way at all. I would be pleasant and show him that he and his dashing smile and confident air does not affect me in any way. He would say, _My, Hermione, how you have grown. I can't believe I left you in a ditch somewhere. Whatever was I thinking?_ Then he would smile and I would smirk.

However, reality is quite a different thing.

My elbows unlock and, with a stifled cry of astonishment, I topple to the floor, my head ringing like the shop bell and pounding as if thudding in a sprint across the floor. My legs are bent and crooked over the chair and the work cloak has fallen from over my face to block my vision, allowing me to see only magenta blurs and thank Merlin I am wearing jeans. I feel two hands helping me up, one under my back and the other righting my legs, and hope with every breath that it is Fred. My protests are muffled and I shake my head to remove the fabric in vain. A hand plucks it away.

'Blimey, Hermione. You sure scared _him_ off.'

I quickly push myself up from the floor, holding onto the chair for support, and peer over the counter again. The grumbling Ministry officials are my sole audience. 'He's– He's gone?' I sputter, confused. 'He was _real_?'

Fred frowns. 'Real as me, unfortunately. Wouldn't mind giving him an unprocessed Nougat. Let him bleed to death. Can't go joining any fancy League teams then.'

'Fred!'

'Right, no plotting anyone's murder. Got it.' He is, regardless, still muttering threats under his breath as I watch him limp away. His limp is more pronounced when he is angry. My head falls into my hands and I muse that this difference is just a reminder of the effects of battle and loss, of the changes made. I am unable to look strangers in the eye without suspicion, Fred and George are forever different, more cynical and mature, Ron is overprotective and overassertive and Harry has seen and murdered horrors that none of us can imagine.

Though it pales in comparison to the darkness of these consequences, I am thinking of a man.

He was standing in the doorway. He wore a blue and gold striped jersey instead of a winter coat or cloak, with arm and leg braces strapped to each limb and firmly grasped a long, shiny broom in one hand. His hair is cut short again, but it still just as thick. He still has the same eyebrows, jaw and nose. He still has that smouldering look in his darkened eyes and he still makes my mouth dry and my knees fail.

Everything I thought had vanished remains. The embers flare. I am a phoenix. My burning days have returned. Our love is reborn.

_-x-x-x-_

Like the coward I am, I have retreated to the back room. The love potion is the last thing I want to make, but it is necessary for the WonderWitch basics. It is simmering. I sit back and it hangs in the air and its sweet smells invade me. New parchment and freshly mowed grass… and… I choke because the other is—.

Then Fred comes in again and I realise he is talking to me. I start. 'Huh?'

'You were thinking about him again, weren't you?'

'I… I can't stop. He's there, all the time.' Fred's eyes harden.

'He's a git, Hermione. I don't understand why you don't let it go.'

'Because I can't! Because he is _always there_.' Tears leak from my eyes unbidden and I furiously wipe them away with the back of my hand, feeling helpless and utterly pathetic. His gaze softens. 'Why, Fred? Why? We've barely even spoken. I haven't laid eyes on him in three years. Why does he have this effect on me?'

'I can't answer why.' Fred steps forward and wraps me in his embrace. 'I can't tell you, because I don't know. I do know that me and George will support you in whatever you do. Just let it out…' I stop crying immediately and push him away. He laughs, 'No? Hermione, I swear you are the strangest girl I know.'

I scramble from the chair and away from him, pulling out my wand and muttering _scorgify_ to clean my face. I relish in the burn. 'It's George and _I,_ Fred. And that does not solve the problem– the… that _happenstance_,' I spit, turning on my heel to face him. My cheeks are still flaming red and my eyes are burning with determination. 'What must happen are strategy, tact and logic.'

Fred walks toward the door again, shaking his head. Then he stops, swivels and marches forward to grasp me by the waist and spin me around and around until I am shrieking with laughter rather than displaced anger for him to put me down. He chuckles and sets me on my feet. 'Try some spontaneity,' he says, ignoring my glaring. 'You might like it.'

Then he leaves and I am left with drooping shoulders and little breath. I let my mouth run away with me and speak my thoughts aloud in a whisper to empty air. 'But for spontaneity I need bravery and it is bravery that I do not have.'

I had fought death eaters and taken the scars with me, held my head high and most of my tears at bay when saying farewell to our dead, smiled when necessary, frowned only in private and with friends, and almost have my perfect NEWTs. But even I, with all these accomplishments and more, could not be spontaneous.

Courage continuously evades me.

_-x-x-x-_

Then there are chances. Suddenly, he is everywhere. Suddenly, when I walk through Hogsmeade to go to the bookshop, he is there. I hurry through the crowds, afraid to be touched, afraid to be late for work, and he is pushing through them in my direction and my cowardly nature forces my eyes wide and down and suddenly I am pressing myself against the wall until he passes.

But one day, when I have seen him, ducked and run, he follows me and I find myself staring at the barrelled chest of Oliver Wood.

'Hi,' he says.

I do not know what to do. I do not know how to feel but to stare at my shoes and screw my eyes shut in the hope that he will disappear or I will so I do not have to be in this situation.

'Hermione?'

And with my name, my name as fire across his lips, my mouth is dry again and I look at his chest again, and then his neck and then his face and his eyes.

Those oak eyes. I am regenerated.

'Hi,' I whisper. I wonder if he is confused as to why I am acting as such, why he is waiting for me to do something, if he is waiting for me to do something. I hold myself around my stomach and fold my arms under my suddenly heaving chest, aware that my hair is falling out of its messy bun and that my fingers are scratched from Crookshanks this morning and that his eyes are running across my form, bold, yet bashful, open and yet attempting to be covert.

'It's good to see you,' he says, and it is soft and unsure. While I am looking at his face, I notice that there are dirt marks across his skin and angry red scratches that are coated in that grime.

'How is the Quidditch?' I ask.

But his answer is not as I expected: he does not launch into a monologue, does not conjure a Quaffle or show me his broom, his broom no where in sight, something that is so rare that I am immediately stunned into wayward suspicion.

He says, 'It's fine. I took a fall,' and points to the dirt patches I was raking my eyes mere seconds before. I lean away as far as I can and stare up at him. The stone wall is smooth and strong against my back. 'You're looking good,' he says. I know I do not look good, I stare down at myself, small breasts, too much fat, curvy in places where curves should not be so large, with no muscle because exercise does not come easy to someone who works at a desk all the time.

I hug myself tighter. 'You look good too,' I say, and it is out before I can think of biting my tongue, more as a formality, but I said that formality without thinking of the implications of such a statement with such unrequited chemistry that should not exist on my part.

And, Merlin, does he look good.

He stares at me too, and I think he might grin but he does not: instead, his eyes flick again and he steps closer.

'Thanks. Do you want to--?'

'Do you have a girlfriend?' I ask, my eyes suddenly flashing as his hand reaches out to touch my hand, my shaking hand tucked under my arm, that arm that is protecting my body, my body protecting my heart and my heart trying desperately to obtain oxygen to breathe. I do not know why I asked that question. I do not know anything, I feel. I feel so useless, cowardly, I feel like I can no longer think on my feet, that Bellatrix's torture stole my smarts as well as my trust in anyone who points a wand at me.

'I…' He drops his hand and folds his arms too. 'Yeah. Claire. She's... she's nice.'

I nod. I am silent while he stares around us at the people passing in the crowd and the abandoned side street to the left. 'I have to go to work. I'll be late.'

'Yeah, okay,' he says, without looking at me. I start to move but, as if by magic outside of our magical world, the photo that I always keep with me flutters to the ground. As if in slow motion, I am unable to move and watch as he picks it up and looks at it. His eyes rise to mine.

'I remember this day.'

'I've got to—'

'Your little trick amazed me.'

I start and stare at him in confusion. 'It was a spell...'

'That's not what I'm talking about.' He reaches for my hand. 'I never forgot.'

'Can I have it back?'

He hands it to me and I slide it back into my pocket, pushing it down securely. With that I turn to leave but his hand grasps mine and he says, 'Hermione, I'm really sorry. There were rules. You don't date as rookie. There was a game.'

I try to stay strong despite the real, burning link that chains me to him, and breathe, 'It's okay.' But really, it pains me to know that he consciously hurt me.

'I'm sorry,'

I do not turn. 'You don't have to apologise. It was years ago.'

'I want to make it up to you. Please look at me.'

I hesitate. I turn. I look at him and his eyes are imploring and his hand has not left my arm and, for the entire world, all I want to do is bury my head against his shoulder and hug him tight because, somehow, I know he can support me and my torments. But it is a fantasy, and I smile at him, that fake smile I use in the crowds, in the shop, between the isles and their narrow corridors. 'I'll see you. I'm late for work.'

Then I leave. The chance for spontaneity lost. His hand seems to take an age to slide from my elbow, and that warmth does not fade even as I barrel my way through the crowds and dive into the shop, dodging the first twin I see, leaving him with a snooty customer whining about the hygiene of the pygmy puffs, and pushing my stunned limbs into the backroom.

When the curtain closes, I lean against the nearest wall, slide down and let myself cry.

_-x-x-x-_

Christmas is two weeks away and the snow is yet to fall. London is assaulted with rain for days then mild, bitter winds for more, the weather unpredictable and dangerous like a war. I am bundled in a blanket of red and blue tartan as I stare out the window of my bedroom at my childhood house, a book about Goblin Wars resting open in my lap and watch the trees sway.

My parents are in the other room and I have made my escape, for in their presence the air is too thick for me to breathe in.

A dot appears in the sky and soon it is an owl, a Snowy owl. I get up and place the book on the table, holding the blanket tight around my shoulders to keep out the cold while I open the window. Hedwig lands on the sill and I stroke her head, reaching for the letter she holds out for me. 'Hi, Hedwig, this is for me?' I ask her, untying it carefully. She hops around on the sill, cocking her head to the side. I smile. 'Waiting for a reply, are you? Do mind Crookshanks.'

The Kneazle glares from his place curled half under the pillow of my bed, squashing the photo that lies underneath. His yellow eyes glow and his horrid face is scowling. I open the letter while Hedwig flies inside and waits on the bedpost, eyeing Crookshanks back in a staring contest, as if they were having a secret conversation.

When I finish reading I sigh and rest my head in my hands, looking out at the overcast sky once more. There is a triple knock on the door. I drop the blanket on the old armchair, pat down my hair and open the door to Ginny.

'Hi. Your Mum let me in,' she says. 'What a scowl she has!'

I step back. 'Ginny, come in. Hedwig's just arrived.'

'And I see you've read Harry's letter.' She nods and grins and that smile is one I know too well. That sly, wicked smile that means Ginny is thinking devious things for me to reject. 'Are you going?'

'It's a party, Ginny. At Christmas,' I say. I sigh and gesture for her to sit at the chair next to the desk. 'It will be Slughorn's party all over. Or Ernie's. You do remember that, don't you?'

'You mean when Fred and George spiked the drinks, Susan almost killed Seamus and Harry and Ron went flying shirtless through Diagon Alley at late-night-shopping?'

'Yes,' I deadpan, trying to quell the small smile twitching at my lips. 'Exactly. We don't need that publicity, not now. Not after…'

Ginny shakes her head. 'We will _not_ live in fear of the media. We won't. And this time Dean knows there's no funny business, all right? He said it's a _dance_, a kind of celebration, which is not a party, not really.' She takes my hand and pulls me to sit on the bed opposite her. The animals stare at us, wide eyed. 'He's paying for it, for all of us, 'cause… you know. And Everyone's going. You never know you might—'

'I do _not_ want you to play matchmaker, Ginny. No,' I interject sharply, holding up a hand. 'I must focus on my N.E.W.T.s, all right? Besides, I don't even _want_ a boyfriend.'

'Right. You've got Crookshanks.' The cat in question glares at her and I gather him in my arms, focusing on his purrs against my chest as his paws that reach to wrap around my neck in a hug, the claws lightly scratching my neck. 'Going to kiss him?'

I set him on my lap and stroke him mechanically, sighing at her pitying gaze. 'Stop looking at me like that.'

'Fine,' she relents, pouting. 'Are you going to go?'

I pause, stare out the window then level my gaze to her. 'As long as you don't attempt to set me up with anyone… and we try to set boundaries for the ruckus. No midnight trips to the stores.'

'Look, it's really tame, quite formal actually. We're going to a hall, turning on some music and having some fun. It's not a club, it's not even a pub. It's a live band and a good time. Like a downscaled Yule Ball.'

Her gaze is so earnest I find I cannot say no. 'All right, Ginny. All right.' She smiles brilliantly, so much I feel almost blinded. I give her a truthful smile in return.

'Great, I'll write to Harry for you. Have you got any owl treats?'

'Bottom draw of the desk,' I reply, stand and set Crookshanks on the pillow again. He curls up and tucks his head under his tail, shutting me out. Maybe he sees my decision as betrayal.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	10. Ignition

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**10: Ignition**

Ginny is a vision. Her red hair is wrapped in a sleek up-do and her dress deep vermillion with sequins across the bodice. She beams when she sees me, her fingers entwined with Harry's, who looks both dashing and uncomfortable. His black hair is still a mess and his eyes a secret green. His lightning bolt scar is hidden behind his fringe. I smile to them as I wait, standing just beside the inside steps to the hall with the music at my back. I arrived early and unaccompanied and every second was spent wishing for my friends. Ron, Fred and George have yet to arrive and Luna decided not to come for fear of some strange, decidedly imaginary creature.

'You look beautiful, Ginny,' I tell her sincerely and give her a hug. I turn to Harry. He smiles, opens his arms and we embrace like the old friends we are. He leaves a kiss on my cheek and I smile to the ground.

'So do you, Hermione,' says Ginny.

'Yeah, you do,' Harry agrees, his lopsided smile shining bright. I refuse to meet their eyes and resist the urge to shake my head. My dress is plain and brown, the colour of dirt, and my hair is still as wild as ever with clips to hold it away from my face and cheap ribbons threaded through for attempts at feminine delicacy. I clasp my hands and fight the words of disagreement appearing as metaphorical bile in my throat.

Harry looks around. 'Where's Ron?'

'Yet to arrive, I think.' I shrug. 'I'm sure he'll find you first when he does.'

Ginny places a hand on my arm. 'He was going to ask you, Hermione. He was, just—'

'We're just friends,' I remind her firmly. 'Good friends, despite the past.'

She pouts. 'I really wish it would have worked out.'

'Fat chance,' Harry mutters and both of us glance at him. He rubs the back of his neck and I smile toward him and his nervous antics. 'Gin, I'm just going to go ahead, you know… you just, er, continue on in, mingle or whatever it is you do here. I'll get us some drinks. Hermione?'

I shake my head and Ginny kisses his cheek before she and I watch him dash inside. 'Don't know what he's going on about,' laughs Ginny.

But I do.

_('You still love him, don't you?'_

'_With all my heart.')_

As we go in I feel even more out of place. Lavender is wearing a ball gown and the Patil twins are in dress robes. The men are wearing suits and ties with their hair tamed and their faces clean shaven. I halt at the archway and stare up at the stars falling down in spirals from the ceiling. The room is decorated in red, gold, silver and white and mistletoe creeps down from both obscure and strategic points. 'Let's go find Dean,' Ginny says, taking my hand. She leads me through the throng of people and I latch onto her hand as if it were my lifeline from the things that could harm me. I do not want to be lost physically when I am already lost in every other way. Let this be sacred.

But my deep-set wound is aggravated and I start to bleed. Oliver Wood stands with Malibu Barbie on his arm, animatedly gesturing with Dean Thomas in what can only be a discussion of sports. Though he looks like he stepped from my dreams – like the James Bond of the wizarding world – my eyes lock on the blonde on his arm: model thin, gorgeous, tanned skin, hair the colour of spun gold and a heart shaped face holding a winning smile that shines the beauty of a thousand suns. Her laugh is faultless music and her almond eyes Hope diamonds.

'Wow,' Ginny breathes, pointing. 'Who's that? Her legs must be a mile long!'

I bring her hand down. 'It's rude to point, Gin,' I mumble, staring at the shimmering dress cut above the woman's knees. 'I think her name's Claire.'

'Seems to suit her,' Ginny comments. She grasps my hands excitedly. 'You always know the most obscure facts, so tell me: What's it mean?'

I shake my head. 'Well, vaguely "clear, bright, famous".' I tell myself I will not run away. I will not go to a shadowed alcove and stay there until it is polite to leave. I look up, my face set in a smile that is far from truthful. 'We should come back later.'

Ginny eyes my fixed smile in that scrutinising way she does when she is a human lie detector. 'What is it?'

'Leave it… please. Let's just enjoy the night. You'll dance with Harry and come back starry-eyed, Fred and George will have another brilliant idea and I'll…'

Ginny drops my hands and hers snap to her hips. 'I swear if you sit down and read somewhere I'll burn all of your books in a second, absolutely every _single_ one.'

I laugh. 'You'll never find my hidden stash, Ginny.'

'Oh no, never,' says a voice behind me. I turn and see the twins, one with a blue shirt and the other in a green shirt, both open-collared. Their suits are dark as midnight and their smiles broad as they always are at these functions. 'Ginny, Hermione, beautiful as always.'

I frown. 'You're _supposed_ to be wearing ties.'

They roll their eyes. 'When have we ever done what we're supposed to do?' I shrug and the frown on my face does not fade. 'We've come to warn you.'

I stomach drops. Ginny eyes him. 'About what?' she asks, and their mischievous grins reassure me.

The two of us turn on them with our hands on our hips, glaring. 'What have you done?' I ask, warning them too.

'Oh you _wound_ us, Hermione.'

'Really, you should be grateful since we've come to notify you of the fact that Skeeter and her protégés are on the prowl. They're outside somewhere getting ready for battle.'

I share a glance with Ginny and we drop our arms, considering the situation. 'Should have known,' she says. 'Got a plan?'

'They doubt us, George,' says Fred – in the blue – and produces two bags from his inner pocket. 'Instant darkness powder: we're handing them out like candy. Throw that, the room goes black and we escape.'

'Only if we're desperate, of course,' continues George, nodding to himself as Fred hands them over to us. Ginny places hers in her clutch and I look at it, shrug and wandlessly shrink it enough to tuck into the top of my dress. 'We've got a backup plan if they're particularly resilient.' George winks and he and Fred depart.

Ginny accompanies me to greet Dean when we see him alone. He smiles as we approach and shakes both of our hands. 'It's really good to see you, girls. I'm really glad we can all be together. Make sure we're still here.' I smile sadly. Dean has taken to joking about the war to make light of the situation and I admire him for that. 'You both look lovely.'

'Thanks, Dean,' Ginny says. I nod and my smile is fixed again.

'Oh, Hermione,' he continues, snapping his fingers. 'Wood was asking about you, said he wanted to tell you something.' I gulp and involuntarily step back. 'If I saw you I was to direct you straight to him.'

I swallow, look up at him and try to blush spreading across my cheeks. 'Did he say what he wanted?'

Dean shakes his head. 'Nah. He was very vague about it. Almost like an afterthought.'

I nod again. 'I'll go see him, then,' I say, smiling. 'Thank you for hosting this.'

He smiles in return, his eyes understanding. Ginny pushes me forward. 'See you later,' she says and winks.

I turn and vanish into the crowd.

It hurts to look but I search for him and find him a second later by some stroke of unfortunate luck. The drink Ginny pressed into my hand, something light and repulsively fruity, almost falls to the wooden floor as I see him catch sight of me. Oliver and Claire dance on the dance floor to something slow and soft. They dance cheek-to-cheek like old, intimate lovers and I can hear her soft sighs from here. Our brown eyes are locked together by an ancient, enigmatic key. I cannot bear to look away and it hurts still to stare into those pleading depths.

_Don't move,_ he is saying. _Stay there, I'm coming._

My eyes cannot be torn from his no matter how loudly my intellect screams at me to just look away. I am caught in his web. Between us there is a golden link, a chain that was forged before time and is absolutely inescapable. This feeling is déjà vu that forces the memory of that day, that day when we kissed and I ran. I ran, and yet that link, that connection that makes us kindred despite time, persists to this day. The same burning feelings, the same truthful thought:

_Caught_. I shudder.

He sees and there is the ghost of a grin on his face. He grasps his girl by the shoulders and looks at her, eye-level, to speak to her and she nods. She and her mile-long legs head toward Angelina where they strike up conversation like a match and its box.

Then he is coming and I almost, almost run because he has a girlfriend and my intentions, whether I try to school them with morals and ethics or not, are not exactly honourable or in line with the delicacy of the situation of his attachment. He is attached and I have been in the past as well. Where does that leave us? Only not-quite lovers of the past?

It is the past that causes my feet to root themselves to the spot and refuse to flee. That flight or fight response born from years of growing and those years growing me too fast. I did not flee from the war, when the time came. We were always fighting.

First love should be no worse than certain death.

We always begin with _Hello_ but this time we are silent and he stares at me for an eternity that is really only seconds. I never thought this supernatural drag on reality would happen again and it only happens around him. With him, I feel timeless.

I drown in his gaze and am tethered to his speech so when his mouth forms the words, 'Shall we dance?' I forget to say no. My nod is all he needs and he grasps my hand in his so he may lead me to the gates of Hell.

On the dance floor I catch sight of Claire watching us out of the corner of the hall with her diamond eyes. But I have waited for this for years and there is nothing left in me to stop him as he pulls me as close to him as he dares. He stops just before I would burn in hellfire. I can hear the words I should be thinking: This is wrong, this is so wrong.

And the ones I am: But it feels so right.

'We're always involved with other people, other things,' he murmurs. Claire cannot see his lips. 'It's always me with her or Quidditch, and you with them or saving the world.'

I become dizzy from his scent. 'I suppose it's part of the charm,' I reply, ashamed my voice sounds breathless. His hand is spread on the small of my back, two fingertips brushing bare skin before my dress begins. He is burning me. What if it scars?

He sighs and slackens his hold for the first time in moments, bringing us a hairsbreadth closer. 'I want to talk to you, Hermione, but maybe it's unwelcome.'

'No,' I shake my head. 'Never unwelcome.'

'Then maybe you can tell me what's going on.'

I swallow and can hardly look him in the eye again. 'What do you mean?'

He scoffs and I realise he is annoyed. 'Come off it. You're smarter than that. You're the smartest witch I know and you _know_ what I'm talking about.'

I do. He is too intuitive for his own good. He has turned from thoughtless to thoughtful in these years, grown up enough to be people-smart from years of media awareness and to know that the events of three years past must be addressed.

I run my nails over the fabric of his suit jacket and try to avoid the seriousness of his face. He always was serious. 'But here?' I ask. 'What about… God, Oliver. It always ends so strange with you, or never begins at all. It _is_ so strange with you. I don't know which way is up anymore.'

'You think _this_ is hard?' He brings me closer still, our bodies a breath away. It is more intense than I ever dreamed it could be. My temple grazes his chin. We continue to sway, barely moving. He draws in a ragged breath and says, 'It's not. Try staying away from the girl who you— who _drives_ you while you're building a goddamn career, and _then_ you'll know the meaning of hard.'

I start at his harsh words and try to shift away to see his face but he holds on, his hand against my back spread wide. I hiss, 'Baby steps, Wood. Let me go.'

'No.'

'You're making the situation worse. This shouldn't be happening. We should be— _not_ this. You're in a relationship.'

'I'd rather be a cheater than a coward, Hermione. I'm not the one running away whenever we try to have a conversation,' he snaps and draws away. 'If your brilliant brain has managed to define this situation, congratulations, 'cause I haven't got a clue.'

'I haven't. I just know it's going to turn illicit because all I want is—'

I stop and bite my lip, staring away at the floor. I can feel him coiled tight and smell his heady cologne that sends me stupid. I almost gave myself away. 'What do you want?' he asks, suddenly soft. I drag my eyes to his and see my want reflected in his darkened gaze, that heavy sense of understanding. Cautiously, sensing the end of our song, watching Claire watch us with hardening shards of jealous realisation, I place my head on his shoulder and bring my lips to his ear.

I drag in a breath like a smoker and feel like crying as I whisper harshly, '_You_, okay? I want _you_.'

'Damn, Hermione.' His hands flex on my back and his fingers dip underneath the dress fabric. I shiver from the touch of cold. He steps closer and rasps, 'Damn it, I'd kiss you. You look so beautiful tonight.' The words burn. Warmth pools in my belly and I shiver, quiver and tremble under his touch. My eyes fall shut against the slow moving world.

Oliver holds me closer than he should and brings ours hands from their waltzing arc to press mine to his muscled chest. He places my palm on his thundering heart and its vibrations, its breaths and very essences are butterfly kisses to my soft skin. My hand is caught between our bodies and unable to escape. I do not want it to. Oliver's lips are near my temple, grazing my curls and he says, his voice harsh and husky, 'Letting you go was the one biggest mistake of my life.' Only I can hear it. Everyone else is faceless and unimportant. We are paused in the midst of swirling couples, close in an embrace with our hearts open, verbal and connected. My body is on fire from the contact.

If only time could pause here, I would taste eternal happiness from the blissful effects of my bravery. 'What are we?' My voice is small, incongruent with the screaming assent of my physical body. My head, my intellect, tells me that this cannot be without definition. 'Friends? Lovers?'

Oliver sighs and I feel him shake his head. 'I don't know.'

Suddenly, without warning, I feel a sob rise within me and it is verbalised. He steps back and looks at me, confused. I pull back, trying to curl into myself, and he drops our hands. It seems an age before we totally part. Oliver's gaze is earnest and strangely lost. I hug myself before him and look every other way but at him. I hate the fact that I am the one to step back again.

The dancers continue around us and we are lost in their whirlpool, standing still in the eye of their storm. Oliver waits, his hands in his pockets as he searches for reason. The air crackles between us.

'I can't do it.' I shake and tremble with the shocking depression that threatens to overwhelm me. I can feel it to my toes. 'I don't know what else I can let myself do. I know I... I can't be the other woman.'

'Hermione—'

'No—'

'Don't do this. Not now.'

'If not now, when?' I snap my gaze to his. 'I'd rather be a coward than a cheater. At least if I'm a coward, I'll have _all_ of you.' His eyes are desperate and pleading and as he keeps my gaze, understanding fills them.

'Okay,' he says. 'Okay.' He sighs, steps forward and says, 'If you want to figure this out as much as I do then meet me outside in half an hour. I know it may not sound like much to you – and I completely deserve it – but I'm sorry for the way I acted.' Oliver lowers his voice and almost growls, 'I meant everything I said, Hermione. I never should have let you go and I won't now I've found you, not again.' I forget to breathe, staring down at the ground. He murmurs, 'Regardless of other people or things, that's one truth you can be sure of.'

I hug myself before him as the dancers exchange partners and we remain in stasis. I am still tethered to him and I am still dizzy. 'I'll be there,' I promise.

He nods and brushes passed me, his voice a whisper. 'And I'll be waiting.'

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


	11. Auroral

**Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'_The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra._

_..._

**11: Auroral**

Fred and George have cornered me with their questions and only stop at my sharp, desperate reprimand, pleading for their silence. After considering the flecks of glass in my eyes, the beginnings of tears, they turn to more light-hearted conversation. It does not last long.

'So, you know, I said to Lee that Fred and I would only continue Potterwatch if he allowed us to advertise Wheezes all the time, and—whoa.'

He is looking over my shoulder and I know that Claire has finally been spotted. No girl has a chance anymore.

I whisper, 'That's Claire,' stricken by the very thought of Oliver choosing her. My diamond eyes have returned –they are not Hope diamonds, they are plain, brown and disgustingly glassy.

Fred's gaze snaps to mine. 'She's with Wood?'

I nod and suddenly cannot look at him. 'I'm going to go find Harry and Ron,' I say and set off before the twins can protest. I chant a march in my head of _left, right, left, right, one, two, three, four_. My eyes follow my footsteps in my plain shoes that fail to truly match my dress.

The party has reached its peak and the dance floor is littered with couples. I pause to watch Neville expertly leading Hannah Abbott in a majestic waltz and do my best to completely bypass the mess of Cormac McLaggen arguing heatedly with Zacharias Smith. I find Harry and Ron peering out a tall, arched window, their wands tight in their grasps. The window's lock is firmly in place.

'Good evening,' I reach out to embrace him, holding on while he becomes flustered.

'_Hermione…_' he whines and I laugh a little as I let go.

'It's good to see you too, Ron. Now, what's out there?'

'Skeeter,' Harry mutters. Ron moves me in front of him since he is so tall. Rita is standing as a white snow queen in the cold with her blonde hair as tightly crinkled as ever and that horrible, acid green quill poised over a roll of parchment. She is sharp and at the ready. Her cameraman stands behind her, looking bored and dirty. 'For once I would just like a night where I'm _not_ Harry Potter,' he says bitterly, rubbing his scar.

'It'll pass, mate,' says Ron. He places his hands on my shoulders. I grasp Harry's scarred hand so we are all connected.

'Yeah, well, whatever. Let's just have some fun. That's what we came for. We'll get those drinks.' But he does not move and only Ron and I can hear his silent sigh. In times like these he seems so old.

'I'm proud of you both,' I tell them and kiss their hands, one after the other. 'My boys.'

'You sound like my Mum,' Ron laughs. But they both squeeze my hands.

Then a camera explodes from the night outside and we know we have been caught. Harry curses and Ron blacks out the window in a second but it is too late. We will be in the _Prophet_ tomorrow, no doubts.

Harry storms away and the guests part for him, in awe of his perceived royal status. Ron sighs, his hand touches my shoulder before he too leaves to lose himself in strong Firewhisky, and I wait to quell the anger burning through my veins. When I am sufficiently calm, I retrieve the Powder and, throwing the window's lock open, hurl it into the sea of reporters and slam the window back. Its glass pane shakes with my restrained anger. When my eyes open again, the outside world is black. We do not need this. I do not need this, not tonight, not now that the burning is back and clouding my senses. I do not want to give into the Passions when Oliver cannot be mine.

Harry, all who served in the name of the Light, deserve the world. We all deserve our wishes and if we cannot get it at Christmas, when can we?

_-x-x-x-_

Ginny asks me later why Harry is in such a foul mood. 'Skeeter,' I reply and that is all she needs. We leave Harry at the bar to readjust with an empty pitcher and a bottomless cup of air, swapping Ron's Firewhisky for hot tea. Their thoughts will be dark and Ginny knows as much as I do that if we attempt to brave their sweeping currents we will surely drown. Maybe the war killed us too.

Eventually, I crack and pull Ginny into the corner and tell her what has happened.

'Oh, Hermione, you should have told me. All these years, and I never knew! What kind of friend does that make me?'

I smile to her lightly. 'I just hid it well, or well enough. But, Gin, I don't know _what_ to do. I'm so confused.'

Ginny grasps my shoulders and turns me around. My eyes immediately land on Oliver and Claire. She has her hand on his arm and they seem to be talking firmly and quietly. But she has her hand on his arm; her hand, his arm, and he _lets_ her.

Ginny wraps her arm around mind and says, 'You go to him, you sort this out.'

'But I'm not—'

'Not brave enough?' She swings me around, her eyes and attitude fiery, as red as her hair. 'Hermione, you've been saying that for years, about everything, but it _never_ stops you. Haven't you noticed? You _are_ brave. All these years, with or without the war, you've been _reeking_ of it.'

'But—'

'No buts!' Ginny nods over my shoulder, pointing furiously. 'Just look at them. Do they look like a happy couple to you?' I glance over my shoulder: Claire's silken hair swings as she departs, stomping on her stilettos, and Oliver bent over on a seat, holding his stomach. I turn back and she shakes her head. 'I didn't think so.'

I sigh and look at the ground as she pulls me into her embrace. 'Gin,' I whisper, 'I'm not sure if I can do this. My heart is...'

'That's what I'm trying to tell you,' she says, swaying with me gently. 'Your _heart_ is brave. You have a brave heart.' She pats my hair back and grasps my arm again as we part. 'And _you_ will never know that if you don't try this, okay?'

_ -x-x-x-_

When I step through the curtains, I see Oliver standing at the cement balustrade alone, gazing out across the football field that is near the rented hall. He turns and sees me. 'Got you a drink,' he says, gesturing to two bottles of Butterbeer resting on the edge. For a moment, he stays quiet, then stands fully and steps forward, only one step. 'Couldn't keep my eyes off you all night,' he says. 'It was a chore to come out here and wait. How'd you get rid of the twins?'

'I threatened them with bookkeeping,' I tell him warily, hanging back near the door. 'They used to split it but since I do it now, they've gotten used to its absence.' I cannot tear my eyes from him either. There is a small outside light brightening the half he has avoided. Oliver is in shadow but his face is illuminated by my memory. He looks like desire tonight. His hair is spiked at the front and smooth at the back and he is clean shaven without any nicks. His black formal suit is a muggle design, at odds with his primarily wizarding background, and tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders. The tie he was wearing – red and thin – has been taken off. The top two buttons of his white shirt are undone and it is hard to tear my gaze from them. When I meet his eyes again, I know that he has been observing me too. I whisper, 'You're here.'

'I'm here. Not Claire.'

'Oh?'

'She was... well, she's gone. Socked me in the stomach with her clutch and vanished.'

Cautiously, I step forward and move to stand beside him, looking out at the football field, and curl my fingers around the unopened drink. There are indistinguishable people setting up the fireworks for midnight, running back and forth with lines of explosives. I watch them while Oliver watches me. 'I hope you're okay.'

He shrugs and lowers himself to lean against the balustrade. 'Sure. One thing about Quidditch is that you get real good at medical magic. I numbed the pain, but not the area. Wicked, huh?'

'It's something else,' I say. I feel his fingers touch my shoulder and glance to him. His hands are cold.

'You're something else,' he repeats. I stare at him until he looks away. This constant burning should kill me but I am warm, too warm. His hand falls away and, as mine shake, I open the lid on my Butterbeer. We both sip from our drinks. He places his on the cement and traces the small rim with his finger. I stalk the movement out of the corner of my eye. 'About... back then. It was stupid. I knew I had a game. I was young and didn't really know you're not supposed to do things like that to girls. Well,' he pauses and cocks his head to the side, glancing to me, 'women. Girls always seemed more like women than boys did like men back then.'

I stay silent, afraid my words of agreement will dissuade him from the topic that I had been too hesitant to breach.

'I'm sorry I stood you up – twice – and I really want to make it up to you.'

My throat has started to close up and I can feel the beginnings of tears. I have him back. I have him in my hot little hands and I have wanted this, whether I was aware of it or not, for years. 'It was a long—'

'I don't care,' Oliver almost shouts. He puts down his drink and turns to me, leans forward, bracing his weight on the edge of the balustrade. My eyes widen at his sudden vehemence and proximity. I could kiss him, I could kiss him right now. 'I don't care how long ago it was. It happened and I was a right git about it.'

I push at his chest, trying to gain my head back. '_Yes_, you were,' I try to stop myself but it is pouring out of my mouth and my honesty is telling me he deserves the cold, hard truth. 'I waited for you. Waited for _hours_ and you didn't show.'

He blinks at my brutality and leans away. My hand slides from his jacket. 'I know.'

'And then you had the gall to ask again. My friends were telling me to let you go, but I stood up for you, Oliver. I went to meet you _again_ and then... it… it _hurt_. And you _knew_?'

He nods, like it is all he can do. I see his eyes flick across my body and down to the ground.

I swallow and step back, clutching my arms in front of me and my plain dress. 'It doesn't matter now. I couldn't go through that again, no matter the pay off.'

Oliver shakes his head and he suddenly blocks my path, his hands on my shoulders. I want to pull him closer and yet I want to shrug him off. I wish away this wretched confusion. 'You won't have to,' he says. 'I'm still learning, but I'm not so bloody stupid now.'

I stare at him. 'How can I believe you?' I whisper, gripping my elbows. 'I hardly knew you, _know_ you.'

'That'll change if we let it. Seriously, do you think I care? And you know what?' He leans forward again and his voice has dropped to a knowing whisper. 'I don't think you care either. Does it matter to you so much?'

I look away, proving my guilt. 'I want to say it does,' I admit. 'But it doesn't. I don't know why, but it doesn't.'

'See?' He rubs my arms and, slowly, surely, I uncoil myself so when he brings me closer and into his embrace, I wrap my arms around him and breathe in his scent, tired of the whole situation and yet strangely content. 'Let me make it up to you, and then you'll know. I won't be letting you down anytime soon.'

I pull away and we return to our more neutral positions in an almost sad procession. 'Does that mean you will at one point?'

Oliver stares at his Butterbeer then grips it in both hands, fingers tapping on the glass. 'Probably. I'm not perfect, Hermione. Far from it.'

It is this honest declaration that chips the first shard of ice from my heart. I smile a watery smile to him and relax. 'That's okay.' I glance at him and see him staring at me with darkened eyes. 'Do you have a definition for this game yet?'

He starts and sets down his drink with a thud. 'You think it's a game?'

'No, I don't. I think it's different and I think I don't know anything when you're around.' I run my hand over my hair, passing my fingers over the coloured ribbons, resting my elbow on the balustrade, and peer at him. 'God, I haven't seen you in _years_, we never had a real relationship besides meeting in the halls and friends-of-friends and here I am, talking completely uncensored. I feel like I've known you my whole life.'

I freeze then jerkily turn and lean my back against the cement half-wall. My hand flies to my mouth. I was not supposed to say that. Why did I say that?

'I mean—'

'A puzzle.'

'What?'

'You, me,' he says cryptically, moving to stand across from me. 'Puzzle pieces that fit together.'

I stare at him. 'You're so insightful.'

He shrugs and says plainly, 'I stared death in the face and always live on the edge of an adrenaline rush. It changes you, makes you see things and be things you couldn't before. Like you. I didn't know what I saw in Claire until I saw you again.'

I swallow. My mouth is so dry. 'What did you see?'

'I saw you.'

'Me?'

'You. Every girl I've tried dating has had something like you. First they looked like you, then they were kind, determined, diligent, smart. In Claire there was hope.' He brushes back my hair briefly and when he drops his hand, I ache. 'But none of them had that look in your eyes.'

I blink, a slow, dangerous movement that makes my quivering all that more obvious. He is close, yet I lean forward, to take him in, to remember him. 'I don't have a look in my eyes, Oliver.'

'You do,' he says, nodding. He brushes back my hair again and this time his hand does not drop. His fingers graze the corner of my eyes. 'The world's in your eyes. I know it's a sappy way of saying it, and I've tried to describe it differently, but I can't. Every feeling you've got, Hermione, they show up right there.' His fingers move across my cheek. My eyes are wide and glassy, with my desire, fear and contentment flooding through. He smiles as if he understands. 'When I'm around you I feel like I can't live without you. We fit.'

He reaches forward and holds my hand, as if he is scared I might fall. I would have if not for that hold, my tether. 'You can't live without me?'

'To me,' he says, placing his hands on my waist, 'you are like flying.'

'Like flying, like love,' I find myself saying, breathlessly unable to stop the memory from surfacing, 'like you can't live without it.'

He leans forward and down and before I realise, his lips touch mine in a kiss. I give in to the heat and the ice around my heart melts as he cradles the back of my head, his hands lost in the forest of my hair. I have waited for this for my entire life. I have waited for this since the birth of the earth and the beginnings of days and I will take this memory to my grave.

I kiss him back with all the fire of a phoenix, forgetting about going slow and steady. My head is silent and I have waited my entire life for a kiss that would send me senseless. I pull him closer by his collar, wrap my arms around his back. I know I burn him too. Years have passed and still I waited for this, still our love waited to burn bright. I feel myself falling as if through space, by slow motion and suspended in time.

When we part, he pushes my hair back and knots his fingers into the stubborn curls, staring down at me with shining strength. I match his gaze, my fingers trapped in his, and he kisses their tips and lays my hand on its rightful place by his heart. I am secure in his embrace. 'Hermione,' he says, placing his forehead on mine, 'I love you. We've waited too long: I've loved you a long time.'

I kiss him, sudden and slow. I burn him, a slow burn. 'Remember that photo?'

'Definitely.'

'Fred and George took it. And you know why? Because that was the day I fell in love with you.'

In another world, the red and green fireworks begin, and the cheering is a distant cry of relief. He brushes back my hair and kisses me again, another burn to my bruised and swollen lips. Midnight presents itself: the clock will strike twelve times. Our love is its fuel.

I am a phoenix, he is my burning day and our love is reborn.

_-x-x-x-_

_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


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